A GRAY FUNERAL, A MAN WITHOUT HIS ANCHOR
A bitter wind swept through Oakwood Cemetery, pushing dry leaves around a fresh grave beneath a dull Rhode Island sky. Jackson Montgomery—Wall Street titan, empire-builder, a name people said with caution—stood among the mourners. But none of that mattered today.
Today he was just a husband who had lost his wife. Eleanor had been the one person who ever saw the man behind the billions, the ruthless deals, the perfect suit. They’d built a life filled with love and laughter… and one quiet ache they rarely spoke of: they never had children.
Now, as the coffin sank into the earth, something went hollow in Jackson’s chest—like part of him was being buried with her.
CONDOLENCES THAT FELT LIKE MACHINES
The funeral was grand, just as everyone expected. Rhode Island’s elite arrived in waves—some grieving honestly, others treating it like the “event” of the season.
Handshake. Hug. Condolence.
All of it felt rehearsed. Jackson barely heard any of it. His world had narrowed to the echo of Eleanor’s voice—gone now, forever.
He wanted the crowd to vanish. But men like him were never truly alone… except in the ways that mattered. When the service ended and people drifted away, Jackson stayed—eyes locked on the polished wood now covered in dirt.
Cold cut through his coat. At a respectful distance, his longtime driver, Thomas, waited without interrupting.
THREE GIRLS BY THE OAK TREE
Jackson finally turned to leave.
That’s when he saw them. Near the edge of the cemetery—half-hidden behind an oak—stood three identical little girls, about eight years old. Auburn ponytails.
Matching navy coats. Hands clasped together as if they were holding each other upright. They didn’t look like the wealthy mourners.
Their clothes were simple. Their faces pale. Their stare… too intense for children.
Jackson frowned. He didn’t recognize them. Yet something about them tightened his chest, quickened his heartbeat for no logical reason.
One of them took a tentative step forward—then stopped, as if remembering a rule. For the briefest second, Jackson met her eyes and felt a strange, inexplicable pull. Before he could speak, the three girls turned in perfect unison and walked away—disappearing behind the tree.
Thomas’s voice brought him back. “Sir… the car is ready.”
Jackson looked once more at the empty spot where they’d been. He forced a breath.
Probably nothing, he told himself. Just kids from the neighborhood. Curiosity.
He got in the car and tried to sink back into grief.
But that night, those three faces wouldn’t leave him.
THE PENTHOUSE AND THE HAUNTING
In his Manhattan penthouse, the skyline glittered like it always did—cold, distant, untouchable. Jackson poured whiskey and stared at a framed photo of Eleanor on his desk.
“I miss you,” he whispered, voice cracking. Eleanor had always believed in signs, in meaning, in timing. She would’ve told him not to ignore the feeling those girls left behind.
Jackson tried to dismiss it as grief… but deep down, he knew he hadn’t seen the last of them. Sleep didn’t come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw three identical figures by an oak tree, watching him like they already knew him.
THE CALL HE COULDN’T EXPLAIN
The next day, Jackson sat in his office on the 54th floor, staring at quarterly reports as if they were written in another language. His assistant lined up meetings. Jackson barely registered them.
His mind kept circling back to the cemetery. Finally, frustrated with himself, he called Thomas. “I need you to do something,” Jackson said.
“Those three girls at the cemetery… the ones by the oak tree. Find out who they are.”
Thomas paused, then answered evenly: “Yes, sir. I saw them.”
“Check with the cemetery staff.
Public records. Whatever it takes.”
“Understood.”
“SIR, I FOUND THEM”
That evening, Thomas called back. “Sir… I found them.”
Jackson sat up straight.
“Who are they?”
“Harper, Haley, and Hannah Wilson,” Thomas said. “Eight years old. They live in Brooklyn with their aunt, Charlotte.”
Then he hesitated.
“And, sir… their mother was Meredith Wilson.”
Jackson’s grip tightened on his glass. The name hit like a punch. Meredith Wilson.
A decade-old memory he never truly buried. A brilliant professor. A short, intense relationship that ended when Jackson’s career demanded London—and he chose ambition over everything else.
Thomas’s voice lowered. “Meredith died three months ago. Leukemia.”
Jackson swallowed.
“And the girls… you said they’re eight?”
“Yes, sir. Born May 12th. Nine years ago.”
Nine years.
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