When the room was silent again, the door opened softly.
Standing in the doorway, wearing her navy cleaning uniform and holding a silver tray with a single porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea, was **Martha Jenkins**.
Her left arm was bound in a clean white fiberglass cast from her wrist to her elbow.
“Miss Eleanor?” Martha whispered, tears spilling over the deep lines of her seventy-year-old face. “Is it… is it really you?”
I stood up from the leather chair, crossed the room in three strides, and pulled the old woman into my arms.