Backpack of Secrets
My yellow sweater clung to me like a reminder of the promise I’d made in that sterile room.
The hallway smelled of antiseptic and something faintly sweet, like the tea the night nurses brewed.
Mr. Knox, the lawyer, stood by the front desk, his briefcase heavy, his eyes weighed down with something he didn’t say.
“Camille,” he said, voice low, “Bennett asked me to give you this.”
He placed the green backpack on the polished floor; the canvas was scuffed, the green faded like old money.
