“Don’t go to the basement.” That was all my boss said before he hung up the phone. At first, I thought it was just another one of his strange orders. You know how some people have weird little rules? That was him. But when I actually stepped into his house, and his daughter said something strange about what—or who—was downstairs, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to see for myself.
If you had told me six months ago that my job as an architect would mostly be about running errands and buying lattes instead of drawing fancy buildings, I would have laughed and told you you’re crazy. I was the best in my class! But then I started working for Mr. Miles. The guy is a genius when it comes to designing buildings, no question. But being his assistant? That’s a whole different story.
Take last Tuesday, for example. The day began with him throwing his car keys on my desk before I even sat down. He growled, “Kara, I need you to take the Porsche to the mechanic again. And don’t let them rip you off this time.”
I blinked, still trying to wake up. “Uh, okay,” I said, grabbing the keys.
By lunchtime, I had already dealt with three calls from his ex-wife, and I’d delivered a pair of expensive cufflinks to the dry cleaner he swore was “the only one who doesn’t ruin silk.” Oh! And I had sat in on a meeting where I had to pretend to be his “junior partner” and present his latest designs. Talk about pressure.
I was halfway through explaining Mr. Miles’ newest luxury condo project to a very impatient client when my phone buzzed. Normally, I’d ignore it, but the screen showed “Boss,” so I knew I couldn’t.
“Kara,” his voice was tight, tense. “Drop everything. Go to Chloe’s school. She says she’s got a stomach ache. Take her to my place. Stay with her until I get there.”
“Wait, Mr. Miles, I’m in the middle of—”
“Now, Kara. No arguments. Go straight home. And don’t go to the basement. It’s, uh, under repair. Understand?”
There was something in his tone that made me stop arguing. “Fine,” I sighed. “I’m on my way.”
When I got to the school, Chloe was curled up in the nurse’s office, pale and miserable. I sat beside her and said softly, “Hey, kiddo. Let’s get you home.”
She barely nodded, holding her stomach tightly. On the drive, she whimpered a little, so I tried to distract her. “So… what’s your favorite ice cream? I bet chocolate chip cookie dough, right?”
She shook her head. “Chocolate’s gross.”
I laughed a little. “Okay, strike one for Kara.” But then she said something that stopped me cold.
“I need Rodger,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Rodger?” I asked carefully. “Who’s Rodger, sweetheart?”
“My little brother,” she said, voice breaking. “Dad left him in the basement this morning.”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Little brother? Basement? What was going on?
When we arrived at the house, my mind was racing. I helped Chloe onto the couch with a blanket and some water, then knelt in front of her.
“Chloe, what do you mean Rodger’s in the basement? Is he okay?”
She looked at me with sad eyes and said, “Dad said not to let him out.”
Alarm bells screamed in my head, but against every instinct, I stood and walked toward the basement door.
I braced myself, expecting a dark, scary horror movie scene. But when I opened the door, I was hit with the scent of lavender and the soft glow of fairy lights. The basement wasn’t scary at all. It was magical.
The walls were painted soft pastel colors—pale pinks, blues, and greens. Whimsical decorations hung from the ceiling. A tiny ruffled tent sat in the corner, surrounded by plush toys and stacks of colorful books. Dolls lined the shelves, each one perfectly placed, as if waiting for someone to come and play.
Chloe padded quietly down the stairs behind me.
“Chloe,” I said, my voice shaking, “where’s your brother? Where’s Rodger?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she walked over to a shelf and picked up a framed photo. She held it out to me with both hands.
The picture showed a little boy, about seven or eight years old, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile.
“That’s Rodger,” Chloe said softly.
I crouched down next to her, heart pounding. “Where is he now, sweetheart?”
She looked up at me and pointed toward the ceiling. “He’s up there,” she whispered.
I blinked, trying to understand. “You mean… he’s in heaven?”
Chloe nodded slowly, her face clouding over with sadness. “He got really sick with cancer last year. Daddy said he had to go where he wouldn’t hurt anymore.”
Tears stung my eyes as I stared at the photo. All this time, I thought my boss was hiding something dark and dangerous, but instead, he was protecting something fragile—the memory of his little boy.
Chloe pulled me toward a small table in the corner where a crayon drawing was framed neatly. It showed a boy and a girl holding hands under a bright rainbow.
“Daddy made this room for me,” she said. “So I’d always have a place to think about Rodger.”
She smiled brightly, spreading her small hands out to show off the room like it was a palace.
“My daddy made it for me,” she said proudly. “He built my princess room. Everything here, he made just for me. Well, we made it together, really.”
I knelt down and gently touched the edges of a tiny tea set arranged perfectly on a miniature table. My chest ached. How could this warm, loving space exist alongside the cold, bossy man I knew?
“You helped him?” I asked softly.
She nodded, curls bouncing. “I picked the colors. And the sparkly lights.” Her smile faded a bit. “It’s our happy place. So I don’t feel so sad about Rodger.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks. Here was this little girl, holding on to her brother’s memory with so much love. Meanwhile, her father—the man who barked orders and made life tough for everyone—had poured all his sadness into making something beautiful for her.
The sound of the front door opening snapped me out of my thoughts. Heavy footsteps thumped through the house. A familiar voice called, “Chloe?”
She ran upstairs. Moments later, Mr. Miles appeared in the doorway. His eyes narrowed when he saw me.
“Kara,” he said sharply, “what are you doing down here? I told you not to come in here.”
I stood up, wiping my face, my words coming out clumsily. “I… Chloe said Rodger was in the basement, and I didn’t know… she said he was there, and I—”
He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is why I didn’t want anyone to see it. It’s… hard for me.”
His voice cracked, and for the first time, I saw the weight he carried—the deep sadness hidden behind his tough exterior.
Standing there in Chloe’s “princess room,” surrounded by proof of her father’s love and grief, I felt a sudden burst of courage.
“Mr. Miles,” I said slowly, “can I be honest with you?”
His sharp gaze softened, no longer angry—just tired. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve been thinking about quitting,” I said, my voice shaking but steady. “I’m not doing real work. I’m fetching coffee and running errands. This isn’t why I took this job. It feels… meaningless.”
He didn’t yell or get angry. Instead, he surprised me by sitting down on a small wooden chair by the tent and resting his elbows on his knees. The mighty Mr. Miles looked human, vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?”
I said nothing.
“You know,” he went on, rubbing the back of his neck, “when I started, my mentor taught me to break people down to build them up. I thought that’s how you make someone succeed.”
He looked around the room, his eyes resting on the family photo.
“But now? I see it’s nonsense. Really, it is.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then he stood and pulled a folder from his briefcase.
“Let’s start over,” he said firmly but kindly. “Here’s a real assignment. Review these blueprints for tomorrow. I want your thoughts on the design. Ready to do some real work?”
My mouth fell open. Was this a test? A trap? Then I saw a tiny smile tug at the corner of his lips. He meant it.
I nodded, grinning. “Finally.”
He laughed softly and stood up. “Good. And Kara?”
“Yes?”
He glanced at Chloe’s drawing on the table. “Thanks for taking care of her. And for… sticking around.”
“Of course,” I said, smiling back.
“Tomorrow,” he said as he walked upstairs, “don’t be late.”
