The Book Wasn’t the Sign — It Was the Trigger
Marcus told me his wife died waiting for a kidney that never came.
He said it like a fact he’d repeated so many times it had lost the option to sound dramatic.
Then he said something that made my skin go cold.
“The first day I saw you,” he said, “you were reading the exact same historical fiction novel she was reading when she passed.”
Same book.
Same bookmark placement.
Same chapter.
He took it as a sign.
Not in a superstitious way.
More like a directive: Do not let this happen again if you can prevent it.
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