Nobody from my office came.
I went alone.
Eleven years of working in that building, and the man who had given so many people directions, fixed so many jammed printers, and kept that whole place running, was being buried with barely a dozen people in the room.
I sat near the back. The service was short, simple, dignified in the quiet way Charles himself had been.
When it ended, I stayed a little longer than everyone else, not ready to leave yet, not sure what I was waiting for.
That's when a man in a dark suit approached me.
"Are you Charlotte?"
I nodded, surprised. "Yes."
A man in a dark suit approached me.
"My name is Liam. I'm Mr. Wilson's attorney." He extended his hand, and I shook it, still processing the word attorney attached to Charles's name. "He left something for you. I was told to give it to you personally, if you came."
He handed me an old shoebox, the cardboard soft with age, held together at one corner with tape that had yellowed.
"Mr. Wilson left this for you," he said again, gently, like he wanted to make sure I'd heard it the first time.
***
I held the box for a long moment before I could make myself lift the lid.
"He left something for you."
Inside, on top, were photographs.
Dozens of them.
The first one made my chest tighten before I even understood what I was looking at.
It was me. My first day. Sitting across from Charles at that table by the window, holding my lunch bag, smiling the nervous, grateful smile of someone who'd just been thrown a lifeline.
I had no memory of anyone taking that photo. I didn't even know Charles had a camera back then.
Inside, on top, were photographs.
Then I remembered him pulling out his old phone. Maybe he'd taken those shots while I wasn't looking.
I kept going.
A photo from the day I got promoted, holding the gas station cupcake, grinning like it was the best thing I'd ever received, which, in a way, it was.
A photo from the week of my divorce. I looked tired in it, hollowed out, staring at nothing. But I was sitting at our table.
He'd kept that too.
I remembered him pulling out his old phone.
A photo from the day after my mother's funeral, the half-sandwich visible on the table between us, my hands wrapped around a coffee cup like it was the only solid thing in the room.
