We sat behind that wall for almost forty minutes while police officers moved in and out of the building.
At last, a police officer with gray at his temples walked over to our group.
“The man’s in custody,” he said. “Nobody was hurt. You’re all safe now. We’re going to need some statements, but you’re safe.”
I looked at Mom.
And only then did I realize I was crying.
Mom reached up and brushed a tear off my cheek with her thumb.
“You always do this,” she said softly.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I might disappear.”
I tried to laugh.
It came out all wrong.
Mom’s eyes drifted down to my coat pocket.
“You picked up my paper.”
I touched the folded program through my coat.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I thought I’d lost it.”
“Mom,” I said. “Why do you still have this?”
She looked surprised that I’d even ask.
“Because Mia gave it to me.”
“That was six years ago.”
“I remember,” she said.
On the back of that program, in my mother’s handwriting, the words were waiting.
I looked at her.
“May I read it?”
She hesitated.
Then she nodded.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.