It was an overcast Thursday morning in early April, the kind of quiet that settles over the sprawling Marlowe estate like a heavy curtain. I was just locking the garden gate after my usual early rounds when I caught sight of a boy slipping through it—a ragged kid, no more than twelve or thirteen, unafraid and urgent.
He moved with a kind of determination that seemed out of place amidst the manicured surroundings.
What struck me wasn’t how easily he bypassed security, but that in all my years here, nobody like him had ever crossed the grounds unnoticed.
