The morning after Staff Sergeant Ethan Walker’s funeral, I stepped into Pierce & Kellogg Law, the folded flag pressed against my chest, its weight both familiar and suffocating, as if it carried the finality of everything I had lost. The lobby smelled sharply of lemon cleaner and recycled air, antiseptic and cold, almost as though the scent were meant to wash away the presence of grief itself. The receptionist avoided my gaze, her expression neutral yet weighted, the kind of professionalism that barely concealed discomfort.

I carried my purse tightly under my arm, feeling the subtle tremble in my hands, unsure whether it came from fatigue, grief, or a creeping sense of dread. In the conference room, my in-laws were already seated at the long, mahogany table, coats still on, their presence a calculated signal of authority and permanence. Richard’s jaw flexed as though grinding something solid, a subtle display of restrained anger, while Marlene’s posture was unnervingly composed, the kind of control that feels deliberate, rehearsed. Attorney Harlan Pierce nodded to me with the faintest recognition, an acknowledgment of my existence in a room dominated by power and expectation, and motioned for me to sit.