I picked up the old pillow.

It felt strangely light—lighter than it should have been.

Yet something was wrong.

Not the lightness of worn cotton.
Not the familiar softness I’d known for years.

There was something solid inside.

I frowned.

I had touched that pillow countless times before, but only now did I notice it—maybe because this time my hands weren’t guided by anger, but by an unfamiliar calm.

“You really hid something, Kara…” I murmured.

I grabbed the scissors from the toolbox.
Just one cut, I told myself. One cut, then I’d throw it away.

When the seam split open, something slipped out and hit the floor.

Not money.
Not jewelry.
Not even a photograph.

It was an old envelope—brown, creased, swollen in places as if it had once been soaked and left to dry.

Inside were receipts, medical documents, and a small blue notebook.

My fingers went numb.

The first page I lifted carried a hospital stamp.

St. Luke’s Medical Center
Department of Oncology

For a moment, my mind refused to process it.

Then I read the name.

PATIENT: KARLA MAE SANTOS

My chest felt like it had been struck.