She shrugged, but her eyes shone. “I just thought you deserved to know.”
As she walked away, she called over her shoulder, “You have to tell me everything!”
“Absolutely not,” I called back.
She cackled and disappeared into the crowd.
And I stood there in the hallway, 62 years old, with my old locket in my pocket and a brand-new kind of hope in my chest.
Not a fairytale.
And for the first time in decades, I wanted to step through it.
Not a do-over.
Just a door I didn’t think would ever open again.
