On the eighth day, a storm rolled across the hill. Lightning flickered against the mansion windows. And through the rain, I saw her—running toward the gate, soaked, clutching something under her shirt as if she were protecting the last important thing she had.
When she reached the gate, she took out a pale pink envelope and pushed it through the bars like placing an offering at a shrine.
Then she whispered, louder this time, though the storm nearly swallowed her voice:
“Please… please let him see it.”
I don’t know why I reacted the way I did. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe fear. Maybe recognition.
But I ran outside barefoot, umbrella forgotten.
She turned to flee when she saw me.
“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I just needed to leave it—I won’t bother anyone, I promise—”
“Wait.”
She froze.
I picked up the envelope. One name was written on it in shaky cursive:
For Ezra Whitmore.
My name.
“Did your mother write this?” I asked quietly.
She nodded. “Yes. Before she… before she left.”
“Left?”
Her voice cracked. “She told me I should come here someday. She said the people in this house would understand who I am.”
My throat tightened. “What’s your name?”