The Door I Was Not Supposed to Knock On
The next morning, I called in sick.
I hated lying to my boss, but I knew I couldn’t focus. My whole body felt like it was moving through water.
After dropping Jonah at school, I went to the corporate address I’d found online for Kingsley Transit Group. The building stood in Midtown Manhattan, tall and glassy, a lobby full of marble floors and people who looked too busy to breathe.
I almost turned around.
A man like me didn’t belong there. My work jacket was clean but old. My boots had scuff marks. My hands were rough from years of labor.
I walked up to the front desk anyway.
“I need to speak with Ms. Kingsley.”
The receptionist smiled politely.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
Her smile shrank.
“I’m sorry. Ms. Kingsley’s schedule is very full.”
I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket and wrote one sentence.
Tell her the broken compass from Seattle is here.
I handed it over.
“Please give her this.”
The receptionist hesitated, then passed it to a security officer, who carried it toward the elevators.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
I was about to leave when the elevator doors opened.
Savannah stepped out.
For a second the whole lobby seemed to disappear.
She was older now, sharper around the edges, dressed in a cream suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. But her eyes were the same.
Gray.
Unforgettable.
She stopped a few feet away.
Her face stayed calm, but her hand tightened around the phone she was holding.
“Adrian Bell.”
Hearing my name in her voice after all those years hurt something in my chest.
“You remember.”
She swallowed.
“Of course I remember.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
Then I said the words that had kept me up all night.
“Are they mine?”
Savannah’s expression shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else in the lobby to notice.
But I saw it.
Pain.
Fear.
Regret.
“Not here,” she said quietly.
