Days after his silent interaction with David, Eric received an unexpected call. It was Martin Greene, his former best friend and the colleague whose life had been irrevocably altered by Eric's mistake. The call was terse, but Martin requested a meeting.
At a small, nondescript diner, Eric arrived early, nervous about the confrontation he had long avoided. When Martin walked in, he looked older and more weary than Eric remembered, his face lined with years of bitterness and pain.
"I didn't think you'd show," Martin said as he slid into the booth.
Eric swallowed hard. "I owe you more than just showing up."
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then Martin pulled out a folder and placed it on the table.
"You ruined my career, Eric. You know that, right?"
Eric nodded, his shame palpable. "I know. And I'm sorry—truly sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix everything," Martin shot back. "You got to walk away from the fallout, but I had to live in it. My savings are gone. My family is barely holding together."
Eric was at a loss. "What can I do? Tell me how I can make this right."
Martin's lips curled into a bitter smile. "You can't. But maybe you can start by admitting what you did publicly."
Martin's demand shook Eric. Publicly admitting his failure would mean reliving the humiliation and judgment that had already destroyed him. But as Martin spoke, it became clear that his old friend wasn't looking for revenge—he was searching for closure.
"I'm starting a small consulting business," Martin explained. "It's all I can manage now. I need investors, and no one will take me seriously with your name tied to my failure. If you admit your part publicly, maybe I'll have a chance to rebuild."
Eric hesitated. The idea terrified him, but he couldn't ignore Martin's desperation. "I'll think about it," he said finally.
Martin scoffed. "That's all I ever get from you—half-hearted promises. Don't think too long, Eric. Some bridges don't stay up forever."
That evening, Eric called Clara, seeking her advice.
"Do you think I should do it?" he asked, pacing his apartment.
Clara didn't answer immediately. "It depends," she said finally. "Do you want redemption, or do you just want to feel like you've done enough? Admitting your mistake won't be easy, but it could be a powerful step forward—for both you and Martin."
Eric sighed. "I'm just scared it'll destroy what little I have left."
"Sometimes," Clara said gently, "you have to let go of what's left to build something new."
The next day, Eric stopped by Helen's house to drop off another letter for David. This time, Helen opened the door before he could leave.
"You're persistent," she said, arms crossed.
"I'm trying," Eric replied.
Helen's expression softened. "I read the workbook note you sent him. It was... thoughtful."
"Did he read it?" Eric asked, his voice hopeful.
Helen shook her head. "Not yet. But it's a start."
Before he could leave, Eric decided to share Martin's proposal. Helen listened intently, her gaze thoughtful.
"If you do this, it could ruin you," she warned.
"Or it could help someone I've hurt," Eric countered.
Helen studied him for a moment before nodding. "Maybe that's what you need to do. But make sure you're doing it for the right reasons."
That night, Eric sat in his dimly lit apartment, Martin's folder open before him. Inside were documents detailing the consulting business and letters from potential investors, all of whom had rejected Martin.
Eric knew this was more than a chance to help his friend—it was an opportunity to face his demons head-on. With trembling hands, he drafted a public statement admitting his role in the tragedy.
"I made a mistake that cost someone their life," he wrote. "I take full responsibility for my actions, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make amends."
Tears blurred his vision as he wrote, but for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of hope.
Eric sends the draft to Clara for review, knowing that once he takes this step, there's no turning back. The rain begins to fall again outside his window, but this time, it feels cleansing rather than oppressive.
He leans back in his chair, staring at the empty walls of his apartment, and whispers, "Maybe this is the beginning."