I used to believe in the power of ideas. I taught my team that three forces shaped human behavior: Love, Time, and Death. I said we lived by them, even if we didn’t name them. That was before my daughter died. Now, I write letters to them—Love, Time, Death—not expecting answers. But I got them.

Today, I met Death. She was a woman in a gray coat, standing in the hospital corridor where Olivia took her last breath. 'You called,' she said. Her voice was calm, final. 'What do you want to know?' I couldn’t speak. She didn’t mock me. She waited.

Now I’m sitting on a park bench, snow falling like static. My phone buzzes—Whit wants an emergency meeting. I know they’re worried. I know they think I’m broken. But what if the letters weren’t madness? What if they were a lifeline?

I have to decide: go to the meeting and face them, or keep chasing these visions before they disappear.