“Don’t go to the basement.” That’s all my boss said before hanging up. At first, I dismissed it as another odd demand from a man full of it. But when I stepped into his house and his daughter mentioned what — or who — was downstairs, I couldn’t stop myself from looking.

If you had told me six months ago that my career in architecture would involve more latte runs than floor plans, I’d have laughed in your face. I was top of my class, after all. But then I started working for Mr. Miles. He’s a genius in his field, sure, but being his assistant is a whole different story.

Take last Tuesday, for example. The day started with him tossing his keys onto my desk and barking, “Kara, I need you to take the Porsche to the mechanic again. And don’t let them swindle you this time.”

I hadn’t even sat down yet.

By lunchtime, I’d dealt with three phone calls from his ex-wife and delivered a pair of cufflinks to a dry cleaner that he insisted was “the only one who doesn’t ruin silk.” Oh yeah, I also attended a meeting where I had to present his designs while pretending to be his “junior partner.”

I was halfway through presenting Mr. Miles’ latest luxury condo project to a very impatient client when my phone buzzed. Usually, I’d let it go to voicemail, but when the screen lit up with Boss, I knew better.

“Kara,” he said the moment I picked up. His voice was strained. “I need you to drop everything and go to Chloe’s school. She has a stomach ache and needs to come home. Take her to my place, and stay with her until I get back.”

“Wait, what? Mr. Miles, I’m in the middle of —”

“Now, Kara,” he snapped. “Straight home. Don’t go to the basement. It’s, uh, under repair. Got it?”

I wanted to argue. I really did. But the tension in his voice, made me pause. “Fine,” I sighed. “I’m on my way.”

When I got to the school, Chloe was curled up in the nurse’s office, looking pale and miserable. “Hey there, kiddo,” I said softly. “Let’s get you home.”

She barely nodded, clutching her stomach as I helped her into the car. On the drive to Mr. Miles’ house, she whimpered softly, and I tried to distract her.

“So, favorite ice cream flavor? I’m guessing chocolate chip cookie dough.”

“Chocolate’s gross,” she mumbled.

“Okay, strike one for Kara.” I smiled, hoping to cheer her up. But then she said something that made no sense.

“I need Rodger,” she whispered, tears welling up.

“Rodger?” I asked. “Who’s Rodger, hon?”

“My little brother,” she said, her voice breaking. “But this morning, Dad left him in the basement.”

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as her words sank in. Little brother? The basement?

By the time we got to the house, my mind was racing. I set Chloe up on the couch with a blanket and some water, then crouched down in front of her.

“Chloe, what do you mean Rodger’s in the basement? Is he okay?”

She just nodded solemnly and said, “Dad said not to let him out.”

Against every warning bell screaming in my head, I marched to the basement door.

As I stepped into the basement, I braced myself for something out of a horror movie. Instead, I was hit with the overwhelming scent of lavender, the soft glow of fairy lights, and a scene so tender that it left me speechless.

The space wasn’t dark or foreboding — it was magical. The walls were painted in soft pastels, and 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 play.

Before I could fully process what I was seeing, Chloe padded softly down the stairs behind me.

“Chloe,” I said gently, my voice trembling. “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.

In the picture, it was her brother Rodger who looked about seven or eight, with the same bright eyes and mischievous smile.

“That’s Rodger,” Chloe said, her voice soft.

I crouched down to her level, my heart pounding. “Where is he now, sweetheart?”

She glanced up at me, then pointed toward the ceiling. “He’s up there,” she whispered.

“But we were just upstairs.” It took me a moment to understand. “Oh. You mean… he’s in heaven?”

Chloe nodded, her little face clouding over. “He got really sick with cancer last year. Daddy said he had to go where he wouldn’t hurt anymore.”