But the girl kept coming.
One evening, curiosity got the better of me. I pulled up the security footage, zoomed in, watched her trace the letters on the pillar with her gaze.
Whitmore.
Whitmore.
Whitmore.
As if she were trying to convince herself she belonged there.
It bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
The next afternoon I watched from my study window. A guard walked up to her, probably telling her she wasn’t allowed to be there. She apologized, bowed her head, stepped back. But before she left, she touched the gate gently and whispered something.
This time I saw her lips clearly.
“Hi Mom.”
My heart dropped so sharply I had to sit down.
The next day, she showed up again—this time holding a wrinkled envelope. She didn’t open it. She just pressed it against the gate and whispered, “I’m trying, Mom. I really am.”
When the guard yanked it out of her hands and scolded her, she flinched so hard my chest tightened.
I fired him the next morning.
Then, on the seventh day… nothing.
She didn’t come.
It’s strange how you can miss someone whose name you don’t even know.