Page 137 of Vital Signs
Hunter unfolded the paper carefully. Inside, a dozen signatures surrounded a simple message: "Tyler's name means hope now. Thank you for making sure it wasn't just tragedy."
Hunter hugged her.
"You did good work here," River said as he approached.
"It's a start," I replied.
“There’s something you should see.” River's eyes met mine. He pulled out his phone, showing me a news headline from this morning: "Pharmaceutical Executive Found Dead in Apparent Suicide: Victoria Nash Leaves Behind Questions About Research Practices."
"They made it look natural," River said quietly, pocketing the device. "Professional work."
"They?"
"Got a note this morning. Unsigned." River reached into his jacket and showed me a playing card, the Ace of Spades. "Just said, 'You're welcome.'"
My eyes drifted to Algerone standing beneath the cherry tree, weathered hands resting on his cane. When our gazes met, he gave the slightest nod, a gesture carrying the weight of promises kept and debts settled.
River drifted back to Theo's side, positioning himself protectively between his partner and the crowd. When a donor stepped too close to Theo while talking, River's posture shifted subtly. The man instinctively backed away without even realizing why.
Hunter's shoulders stiffened as his parents approached. His mother wore a tailored blue suit, silver-streaked hair pulled into a perfect chignon.
"The speech was excellent," Mrs. Song said, giving me a quick nod. "Clear and compelling. I’m sure you’ll have donations pouring in."
She reached toward Hunter and brushed his shoulder. His eyes widened slightly at the unexpected touch.
"You look good," she said, grinning from ear to ear.
Hunter swallowed hard. "Thanks, Mom."
"Your father and I are proud of the work you're doing here."
When his father embraced him, the tension fractured into something vulnerable I rarely witnessed.
Mrs. Song turned to me, eyes softening at the corners. "Thank you for bringing him back to us." Her hand briefly squeezed mine. "For taking care of him when we couldn't."
I nodded, throat tight. I straightened my sleeve, focusing on the perfect break of fabric against my wrist instead of the ache spreading beneath my ribs.
"By the way," Mrs. Song added, glancing between us with the hint of a smile, "your father and I found a venue that might work for the wedding. Nothing extravagant, just a lakeside property with good parking. We can discuss it over dinner next week."
"What your mother means," Mr. Song said, his voice gentler than hers, "is that we'd like to get to know the man who helped our son find his way back." He clasped Hunter's shoulder. "The center is impressive. You've built something important here."
"Hunter did most of the work," I said. "I just gave him a place to heal." My eyes met Hunter's. "He's the strongest person I know."
Hunter's hand found mine, squeezing once. The gesture said more than words could.
"We'll see you both for dinner next Saturday," Mr. Song said and waved as they were pulled into another conversation nearby.
"I’m glad your folks are coming around more," I said.
“That’s thanks to you.” His thumb traced the sharp line of my jaw, the gesture tender despite the calluses earned through months of construction work on the center.
"We saved each other," I said simply.
It wasn't hyperbole. Without Hunter, I would have spent my life planning murders, turning my trauma into weapons against the world. Without me, Hunter would have completed what the DNR tattoo promised by disappearing from a life he'd convinced himself held no value.
Instead, we'd built something beautiful together. Not just the center, but ourselves. Our capacity for joy. Our ability to transform pain into purpose instead of letting it destroy us.
"I love you," I said, the words still new enough to taste like miracles.
