backpack stuffed with snacks, a dead tablet, a change of clothes, and the stuffed rabbit Lily hadn’t let go of since her mother died.
He had bought the roses at the airport.
Tomorrow marked exactly three years since Sarah, his wife, had passed away. Every anniversary, Ethan would place fresh flowers in the living room, and Lily would choose the vase. It was a small, stubborn tradition—one of those routines that survive because grief needs something simple and tangible to rest upon.
“I have a reservation,” Ethan said, keeping his voice strictly at a whisper. “Under Ethan Vance.”
The receptionist—a blonde woman with flawlessly styled hair and a gold nametag that read Patricia—scanned him from head to toe before reluctantly tapping on her computer. Beside her, Karla, another front-desk agent wearing a crisp beige blazer, crossed her arms with a cold smile.
Patricia typed for a few seconds. “Nothing is
