Mrs. Harris in the Manager’s Office
I sank into the chair opposite Mr. Pemberton’s polished desk, the old leather sighing under my weight.
His eyes were gentle but his hands trembled as he slid a folded piece of paper across the surface.
The envelope was the same thick, ivory stock that Gerald had used for birthday cards, the ink still a little smudged.
I lifted the corner with a shaking finger, feeling the faint curl of the paper as if it might spring back to life.
“Mrs. Harris,” he said,
