William Farrow, the renowned cardiothoracic surgeon, was not a man who enjoyed parties. This one, held in a luxurious hotel bar to celebrate the success of his latest groundbreaking operation, should have been his moment of triumph. Yet, as the murmur of polite conversation and clinking glasses swirled around him, he felt nothing but a profound emptiness.

With slow, measured steps that betrayed his inner fatigue, he detached himself from the crowd and made his way to the polished mahogany bar. He sank onto a leather stool, the motion speaking of a weariness that went deeper than bone. He was about to order a whiskey, neat—something to burn away the numbness—when the main door opened.

And then he saw you.