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The November rain fell in cold sheets across Riverside Cemetery, turning the world into blurred charcoal and silver. Elena Morrison Bradford stood in front of a mahogany casket, one hand curved over her six-month-pregnant belly, the other trembling as she placed a single white rose on the polished wood.
“Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered.
Her father had been the only person who loved her with no hidden invoices attached. No expectations, no strings, no “as long as.” He had taught her to read contracts, but more importantly, to read people.
“Their character shows when they think you can’t change their life,” he used to say. “Watch that. It never lies.”
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