I found Mrs. MacLeod in the conservatory the next morning, standing in front of the orchids.
She was dressed in her usual uniform, her silver hair pinned back perfectly, but something was different about her posture. She seemed smaller somehow, more fragile. The woman who had been my rock, my anchor, my shield—she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
"Mrs. MacLeod?" I approached her slowly. "Are you alright?"
She turned to face me, and I saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying. Mrs. MacLeod, who never showed weakness, who never let anyone see her break—she'd been crying.
"I need to tell you something," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Something I should have told you a long time ago."
My heart started racing. "What is it?"
She motioned to the bench nearby, and we sat down together. She was silent for a long moment, her hands clasped in her lap, her gaze fixed on the flowers.
