Charles rarely looked at her—not from arrogance, but because he barely looked at anyone anymore. He lived sealed inside his office, surrounded by documents, faded photographs, and unspoken loss.
Still, something unsettled him.
Each morning when Anna served breakfast, a strange heaviness settled in his chest. A feeling he couldn’t name.
“Thank you,” he would say quietly.
“Of course, sir,” she replied, eyes lowered.
One morning, without knowing why, he asked, “How old are you?”
Anna blinked, surprised. “Twenty-six, sir.”
Charles nodded.
Twenty-six.
The same age Emily would be—if she were alive.
He dismissed the thought, refusing to stir old pain.
The truth revealed itself through something small.
One evening, Charles grew dizzy on the stairs and fell. Anna was the first to reach him.
“Mr. Whitman!” she cried.
As she cleaned the cut on his forehead, she softly hummed a tune without thinking.
Charles went still.
“That song,” he whispered. “My wife used to sing it to our daughter.”
Anna froze. “I don’t know where I learned it,” she said softly. “I’ve always known it.”
That night, Charles didn’t sleep.
The next morning, he called his longtime attorney, Daniel Brooks.