Emily Warren, the receptionist, was there too. She looked embarrassed when she saw me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That day, I really thought—”

“I know.”

She offered a weak smile. “You were very calm.”

“No,” I told her. “I was very angry. Calm just photographs better.”

For the first time, she laughed.

The lecture hall filled with young doctors. Denise Carter spoke first. Vanessa followed. She told them Lily had loved surgery — not because she wanted power, but because she believed precision could save lives.

Then Vanessa looked toward me.

“And sometimes,” she said, “the truth survives because one person refuses to hand it back.”

I lowered my eyes. I hadn’t saved Lily. None of us had. But we’d kept Nathan from writing the ending. And that mattered.

THE END.