“I wrote it,” the girl said.
That answer didn’t make sense. Not at first. It shouldn’t have meant anything. And yet, it did.
Before anyone could question her further, a woman’s voice cut through the tension.
“Emma!”
The girl turned. A woman hurried across the lot, her expression tight with worry, her movements quick and unsteady. She reached the girl and took her by the arm gently but firmly.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking around at the men. “She didn’t mean to bother anyone.”
But she stopped mid-sentence when she saw the man’s face.
And whatever she saw there silenced her completely.
The man stood up slowly, the paper still in his hand. He was taller than I expected, broader too, his presence filling the space in a way that made people instinctively step back. Not because he threatened them, but because the moment itself had become too heavy to stand close to.
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl.
