Mrs. Blythe took the footwear from me and examined the small paper under it before reading it aloud.
"Do not be afraid of her. You have a strong brother," she read aloud, raising her head to meet my gaze.
"This is just a griptron paper. Someone must have dropped it on the floor, and the Queen accidentally stepped on it. Just remove it, toss it in the waste bin, and return the footwear to its rack," Mrs. Blythe instructed as she continued to hang the dress delivered by the dry cleaning company.
Unaware of why I was fixated on the footwear, Mrs. Blythe remained oblivious. Last night, as I watched Jordan write his new story, I recognized that the handwriting on the paper matched his. I couldn't help but wonder if the message was intended for me. Regardless, the words provided me with a newfound sense of strength.
