Inside the shoebox lay a thick stack of envelopes tied with twine, a small brass key, and a folded letter in Arthur’s careful handwriting. The first line read, “Natalie, you were the only one who sat down without asking what I could do for you.” My throat tightened. Daniel stood quietly beside me as I unfolded the page. “Arthur Fletcher founded the company you work for,” he said softly. “He gave it up forty years ago and chose to stay close to the people he built it for.”

I stared at him. Before I could answer, a black sedan pulled up at the curb, and my department director stepped out in a dark suit, face pale. “Natalie,” he said, “the board just called. They need to speak with you about Arthur’s will.” Behind him, three of my coworkers stood in the cemetery gate, still wearing their office badges, unable to look me in the eye.