I saw the cedar box with the brass clasp that did not lock.

Inside those boxes lay the truth I had carried in silence for three long years.

The minutes crawled past like hours.

The shadow of the pine tree outside my window grew longer and darker.

A light knock sounded at the door.

Dr. Shah walked in, holding a metal clipboard.

He looked at me over his silver-rimmed glasses.

“How are we feeling, Claire?” he asked.

“I want to go home,” I said.

He walked to the side of the bed and pressed his fingers to my wrist.

“Your heart rhythm is still irregular,” he said.

“It is just stress,” I said.

“Stress can be dangerous when your body is this exhausted,” Dr. Shah replied.

He looked down at his chart and made a brief note with a black pen.

“Mr. Whitmore asked me to keep him updated,” he said.

“He is very concerned about you.”

“Daniel is a busy man,” I said, looking away.

“He has his own family to worry about.”

“He seemed quite focused on you,” Dr. Shah said.