The Death Certificate

(Doctor's perspective - "The Story of an Hour")

The spring afternoon was unusually warm when they called me to the Mallard house. When I entered the bedroom, three things struck me immediately: the smell of rain through the open window, a single yellow chair turned toward the light, and Mrs. Mallard's body lying perfectly still with the most peaceful expression I'd ever seen on a dead person.
Her sister Josephine gripped my arm. "It's my fault," she sobbed. "I told her the good news too suddenly." Behind her, Mr. Mallard stood frozen in the doorway, his travel coat still on, his face pale with confusion. His untouched suitcase leaned against the doorframe.
When I examined Mrs. Mallard, I noticed details others might miss: the faint lines around her eyes from recent crying, the way her fingers lightly curled as if they'd just released something precious. Most strange was her smile —— not the twisted smile of shock, but something soft and secret, like a child hiding candy in their pocket.
The bedroom told its own story. A book lay face-down on the windowsill, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Outside, I could hear birds singing and the distant sound of someone opening a window in the next house. Life going on as usual.
"Cause of death: heart disease," I wrote, just as I'd done for twenty-three years. The pen made its familiar scratching noise against the paper. Nobody questioned it. Nobody ever questions when a woman's heart stops beating at the wrong moment.