But I knew how his days went. One meeting bled into the next. Calls piled up. Things slipped through the cracks. So after breakfast, I picked up the folder, buckled our son into his car seat, and decided to drop it off at his office like I’d done dozens of times before.
The address was burned into my memory.
Or so I thought.
The drive felt normal. Traffic moved slowly. The radio murmured in the background. Our son chatted about something trivial from the back seat. Nothing felt wrong—until we turned onto the street where the office building stood.
That was when my chest tightened.
The building looked… wrong.
The company sign was gone.
The windows were streaked with grime, as if no one had cleaned them in years. Orange cones blocked part of the parking lot. Heavy chains hung across the main entrance doors. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the pavement.
I slowed the car, convinced I must be mistaken.
Maybe they were renovating.
Maybe they’d moved entrances.
Maybe this was just temporary.
I parked anyway.
As soon as I stepped out, a security guard emerged from a small booth nearby. He looked bored, not busy. The kind of bored that comes from watching over a place that rarely sees people anymore.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, forcing a light tone. “I’m looking for Hartwell Solutions.”
He frowned, then paused in a way that made my stomach sink.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “that company went bankrupt three years ago.”
I laughed too fast. “That’s not possible. My husband works here. He was here this morning.”
The guard shook his head. “This building’s been empty since the shutdown. We just do periodic inspections now.”
The world tilted.
My fingers curled tightly around the folder in my hands. I stepped away from the guard, heart pounding, and called my husband.
“Where are you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“At the office,” he replied immediately. “In a meeting.”
“Which office?” I pressed.
“The usual one,” he said, irritation creeping in. “I’ll call you later.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, frozen, trying to make sense of two realities that could not coexist.
That was when my son spoke.
“Mom,” he whispered from beside me, pointing toward the ramp leading underground. “That’s Dad’s car.”
I followed his finger.
