The drive to the station is a blur of flashing lights and blaring sirens, a chaotic symphony of my own making.Jordan drives, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his jaw set in a grim line. I sit in the back, my head leaning against the cool leather of the seat, my eyes fixed on the passing city lights.I try to prepare myself. I try to steel myself for the possibility that the woman in that morgue is, in fact, my wife. But I can't. My mind refuses to go there. It keeps replaying memories of her, flashes of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the way her hair caught the light.I remember the day we met. I was at a charity auction held by our school. She was a volunteer there. I was there because my mother forced me to go. I was bored out of my mind, my phone in my hand, scrolling through messages from my Rose, a bittersweet ache in my chest.Elara was wearing a simple white blouse and a long skirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was moving through the crowd with a tray of
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