The handwriting was unfamiliar. It was soft and rounded, neither masculine nor feminine. Ellen stared at it for a long moment, her breath visible in the morning chill. Whoever wrote it knew how hard Sam had fought. Everyone who knew him called him “a brave boy.”.
She stood there for a long time, unsure whether to feel comforted or violated. Was this a stranger offering compassion? Was it someone who had known Sam intimately, or someone who wanted to get at her through his death? The thought sent a shiver through her.