That was all she carried with her.
At seventeen, she left the orphanage with a bag of secondhand clothes and a handwritten address: San Antonio. She found work as a housekeeper.
Without realizing it, she walked back into the home where she had once belonged.
Charles rarely looked at her—not from arrogance, but because he barely looked at anyone anymore. He lived sealed inside his office, surrounded by documents, faded photographs, and unspoken loss.
Still, something unsettled him.
Each morning when Anna served breakfast, a strange heaviness settled in his chest. A feeling he couldn’t name.
“Thank you,” he would say quietly.
“Of course, sir,” she replied, eyes lowered.
One morning, without knowing why, he asked, “How old are you?”
Anna blinked, surprised. “Twenty-six, sir.”
Charles nodded.
