I didn’t want to lie to him, but I did. I told him the phone hasn’t rung in days. He closed his eyes and let out a long, ragged breath. He looked relieved. It broke my heart all over again to see that.

Why would a father want to die without his only child? What could have happened that was so terrible it made him prefer this cold, empty silence?

I went back to the kitchen and made coffee, but I couldn’t drink it. I found myself staring at the wall, spiraling through every memory I have of these two men. I think about David as a little boy, running through the yards with a toy truck. I think about Mr. Kessler in his garden, pruning the roses with such care and precision, a man who loved beauty but clearly couldn’t handle the messy reality of his own blood. I keep wondering if I should have fought him on it. I wonder if I should have just called David anyway. Maybe I should have stood my ground and told him that secrets don’t save anyone. Maybe I should have brought David here the day the hospice nurse told us it was time. I am just a neighbor. I am just a person who knows how to change a dressing and measure out morphine. I was never supposed to be the judge of their history. I was never supposed to be the one who decided who gets to say goodbye. It is all so heavy. It is all so unfair. I am just sitting here, waiting for the clock to hit four, feeling like I am trapped in a room with no doors and the walls are closing in on me. I am so tired of the lies. I am so tired of holding this weight.

The clock on the wall ticks louder every minute. It is 3:55.

I look at the letter again. It is just paper and ink. But to David, it is a bridge. To Mr. Kessler, it is a wall. I have the power to tear it down or to build it higher.

If I open it, I will know the secret. If I know the secret, I might be able to fix it. But I don’t know if some things can be fixed.

The phone lights up. 3:59.

My heart is thumping against my ribs. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator. Everything feels frozen in time.

The phone starts to ring. It is a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet house.

I look toward the bedroom. I know Mr. Kessler is drifting, his breathing shallow and uneven. He is already half-gone. He doesn’t know the phone is ringing. He doesn’t know the letter is here. He is holding onto his pride like it is his last breath.

I reach out my hand. My fingers hover over the screen.

“Don’t call David.” That is what he told me. That is the promise I gave him.