You find it amongst your father’s papers, tucked between his will and insurance documents. Your name catches your eye immediately—typed neatly at the top of what appears to be a newspaper clipping.
An obituary: yours.
“Died peacefully at home,” it reads, dated tomorrow. Your hands tremble as you scan the familiar details—your age, your profession, your surviving relatives. Everything accurate, everything correct.
But the cause of death: blank.
You stare at the empty space, heart hammering. Then, as you watch, red letters begin to form across the white paper. Slowly, deliberately, as though written by an invisible hand dipped in blood.
The first word appears: “Blunt.”
Your eyes dart to the heavy brass paperweight on your father’s desk.
The second word materialises: “Force.”
The third: “Trauma.”
Footsteps are approaching from the hallway behind you.
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