The next morning, I asked for a lawyer.
Marcus was there beside me when the papers were delivered.
He listened as I dictated my wishes:
A fund for homeless veterans.
A fund for forgotten soldiers.
A fund for the men who had survived war but not the world that came after.
Every dollar I had saved.
Every asset.
Every possession.
Not a penny to the children who had abandoned me in my final years.
Instead, I wrote each of them a letter — not out of anger, but out of truth.
Letters that said:
“I loved you.
I raised you.
But in the end… you were the ones who walked away.”
When I sealed the envelopes, my hands trembled — not with fear, but with relief. For the first time in a very long time, I felt like I had reclaimed something: my dignity.
The morning of my last day began like any other, with soft light filtering through the thin curtains and the quiet hum of machines reminding me I was still tethered to this world. But something felt different—calmer, gentler, like the air itself understood that an ending was coming.
He came in without a sound, carrying a small thermos of real coffee — strong, dark, familiar. The scent filled the room, warming the edges of the cold dawn. He poured it into a cup and handed it to me with both hands, as if it were something holy.
“Morning, brother,” he said, his voice huskier than usual.
“Morning,” I whispered back.
He tried to smile, but his eyes were wet. He wasn’t ready to lose me. I wasn’t ready to leave him either, but life doesn’t give us a vote when it comes to timing.
He pulled his chair closer, took my hand, and sat with me in silence.
A silence that, for the first time in my life, didn’t feel lonely.
THE BROTHERHOOD ARRIVES
Not quietly.
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