At my age, early calls rarely bring good news, and I nearly ignored it. Only a handful of people still had my number — the pharmacy, a foreman named Hank who sometimes offered me a day’s work, and telemarketers selling warranties for trucks I no longer owned.

Still, I answered.

“Walter Hayes?” The woman sounded calm, professional.

“Yes.”

“My name is Caroline Briggs. I’m an attorney with Briggs and Thornton. I’m calling regarding your sister, Eleanor Hayes.”

My grip tightened around the phone. Over the years, Eleanor and I had drifted apart the way families sometimes do — pulled by pride, distance, old wounds, and money.

We still exchanged birthday cards. We usually talked on Thanksgiving. Every Christmas she mailed me a tin of homemade shortbread, even the years I couldn’t afford to send anything back.

She was two years older, twice as capable, the sort of woman who could repair a tractor, understand tax paperwork, and quote poetry while replacing spark plugs.

And she was the only person from my old life who never looked at me with embarrassment.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’m very sorry,” Caroline said. “Eleanor passed away four days ago. Her heart. She died peacefully in her sleep at the lake house.”

My legs gave out before my mind caught up, and I sat on the edge of the bed. The room felt smaller — the water stain on the ceiling, the dented mini-fridge, my muddy work boots by the door.