After sixty-two years of marriage, I thought I knew every fiber of Harold’s soul. We were more than partners; we were two halves of the same breath. But as I stood by his casket, numb with grief, a girl I had never seen in my life approached me. She handed me a plain white envelope, whispered that he had instructed her to deliver it only on this specific day, and vanished into the crowd before I could demand an explanation. My hands trembled as I clutched that paper, unaware that I was holding the key to a truth that would destroy everything I believed about our life together.
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