The revolving doors at Lakeshore Plaza spun quietly in the mid-morning light. The marble lobby shimmered like a lake under fluorescent suns. People hurried past with coffees and briefcases, their heels ticking like impatient clocks. Near the security desk, a teenager stood very still, as if afraid the floor might push him away.
“I came to return an envelope,” the boy said. His voice was small but steady. His hands clutched a thick manila envelope to his chest. He looked as though letting go of it might shatter something important.
He was thirteen, wiry and sunburned, with tangled curls and a faded shirt that had once been blue. His flip-flops slapped softly against the gleaming floor, out of place among loafers polished to a mirror sheen. His name was Jace Winton, though he had rarely heard anyone say it kindly.
The security guard, Mitchell, arched a skeptical brow and crossed his arms. He towered over the boy like a mountain that did not intend to move.
“This is private property,” Mitchell said. “Kids are not supposed to loiter here. Take your things and head back outside.”
Jace’s grip tightened on the envelope. He swallowed and forced himself to meet the guard’s eyes.