A gravely sick wealthy woman strolling in a snowy garden noticed a father and his son shivering on a seat—and brought them to her residence…

Not because you’re my relative. But because you’re the person I trust. Whom I’d entrust everything.

Even a son, if I had one. Let this be your beginning. Not end.

With love. Forever. E.» Michael read the letter three times.

Then put it in his pocket. Didn’t cry. Only sat in her chair, closed his eyes, and for the first time since her death allowed himself to exhale.

The company mourned. The staff didn’t believe. On all floors were her portraits, black ribbons, flowers.

Olivia, the deputy, sobbed in the corridor. People said with Emily’s departure everything would collapse. But one day Michael came to the meeting in a strict suit, with new folders.

I’m not Emily Thompson, he said. And don’t intend to be. But she entrusted me this place.

And I won’t let her down. Some applauded. Some were silent.

But all stayed. He entered her office. Closed the door behind him.

Looked at the chair where she no longer sat. At the window she looked out. At the calendar frozen on the date before the flight.

Michael approached the table. Placed Ethan’s photo. And said aloud.

Let’s go, Emily. We work. And outside the window, spring began again.