will be.”

That was when I cried.

Not loudly, but just enough to stop pretending I was made of stone.

—

Three days later, I stood at the foot of Mrs. Alden’s marble staircase, the same staircase I had cleaned when I was 19.

This time, I held a brass key.

Henry stood behind me with a box of my things and two suitcases.

“Is this everything?” he asked.

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