THEY DECLARED HER DEAD—THEN ORDERED HER CREMATED WHILE SHE WAS STILL ALIVE!

"Maya, come on," Lena said. "You fought too hard to go now."

The paramedics worked under the flashing lights while Nora stood frozen beside the ambulance. A firefighter placed a blanket around her shoulders, but she shook him off.

"She promised," Nora whispered. "She promised she'd stay."

Lena couldn't look at her. She watched the monitor, counted the seconds, and held on to a hope she had no right to guarantee.

Then the line moved.

A weak rhythm returned. A paramedic called for transport, and the stretcher rolled into the ambulance. Nora climbed in beside her sister without waiting to be invited.

Three weeks passed before Maya could walk down a hallway without stopping to rest. Her hands healed slowly. Some nights she woke thinking she was back under the surgical lamp, listening to strangers discuss her cremation. Lena visited when she could. She never told Maya to forget. She just sat with her until the shaking stopped.

By winter, the city had learned what St. Agnes had done. Vale and Rourke faced criminal charges. Pike lost his badge and his freedom. Northstar's trial program was shut down while investigators examined hundreds of records. Families came forward with funeral bills, unanswered questions, and photographs of people they'd been told were already ash.

Not every family got someone back.

Anna Keene's remains were identified among the evidence from the crematory. Daniel and Michael buried her beneath an old oak tree, with no hospital representative allowed near the service. Lena attended. She said nothing because there was nothing that could make the loss fair.

At a public hearing, Maya took the microphone with Nora sitting beside her.

"I wasn't brave," she said. "I was scared. I still am. But I knew my sister was waiting for me. Every person in those rooms had somebody waiting. That's what those doctors tried to erase. Not just names. People."

Lena listened from the back row, her eyes burning.

After the hearing, Nora caught her hand. "You said you couldn't promise we'd be okay."

"I remember."

"We are now," Nora said. "Most days, anyway."

Lena smiled. "Most days counts."

For one quiet moment, she believed the nightmare was finally behind them.

That evening, back at her desk, she opened a plain envelope with no return address. Inside was another death certificate from a hospital three states away. The red stamp was familiar. So was the forged signature.

DEATH CONFIRMED.