Two weeks ago, I, Evelyn, a 25-year-old fresh out of college with an accounting degree, landed my dream job at a prestigious real estate firm. My boss, Blake, a successful, distant man, was someone I admired from afar. But everything changed one Thursday when I took papers to his office.

There, on his desk, was a framed photo of me. I didn’t recognize it, but it was clearly me—scrawled with the words, “My Dream” and “I Love You.” My birthdate was written there too. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of it.

Suddenly, Blake entered the room, his expression a mix of surprise and something darker. “Finally,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. He revealed something that made my blood run cold: he’d been watching me for years. His son, the baby I saved from a fire when I was thirteen, had grown up knowing about me. Blake showed me notes from his son, written in childlike handwriting, thanking me for saving him.

“You became his hero,” Blake explained softly. “He wanted to meet you.”

I stood in shock, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Years of strange gifts and anonymous gestures now made sense.

“Maybe someday, we can meet. Just… no secrets,” I said, leaving the office with a heavy heart.

Blake’s expression softened. “Thank you, Evelyn.”