Part 16: The Chime of the Bell
Part 16: The Chime of the Bell
The peace I built was solid.
It lasted two years without a single crack.
I expanded the pharmacy. I hired a small, fiercely loyal staff.
I became a fixture in the West Loop, known for precision and quiet competence.
Then, on a rainy Thursday evening, just minutes before closing, the front door chime rang.
I was alone, counting the register.
I didn’t look up immediately.
“Just a minute,” I said.
When I finally raised my eyes, my breath caught.
Not because of who it was.
But because of what she represented.
A woman stood near the doorway, dripping wet.
She wore a beige cashmere coat that cost more than my first car.
Her hair was perfectly styled, but her eyes were wide, darting, and exhausted.
She was clutching the hand of a little boy, maybe five years old.
I recognized the look on her face instantly.
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It was the exact same look I used to wear in the mirror at the Caldwell estate.
The look of a woman who was slowly suffocating inside a gilded cage.
