After locking up your belongings in the back office, you strode down the narrow service corridor, your shoes squeaking against the polished tile as you made your way toward the elevator. The familiar chime greeted you as the doors slid open, and with a quiet exhale, you pressed the button for the main floor. The ride up was brief but always felt like the true start to your day—the moment you became part of the hotel’s heartbeat.

The elevator doors opened to the grand scene of the lobby. Gold-plated doors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, their intricate designs catching the morning light, while the expanse of polished marble floors reflected the movement of guests meandering through their routines. To your left, a clump of early risers gathered at the front desk, some checking in for conferences, others stretching after long flights. A couple sat curled on a tufted blue velvet couch, giggling quietly with cups of steaming coffee. The tinkling laughter from the restaurant near the spa mingled with the low hum of chatter, giving the space its unique sense of bustle and belonging.

Through the noise, your eyes found a familiar figure lingering near the manager’s office. Ms. Anabel Crosby—no one in the building, staff or guest, failed to recognize her. She was a fixture, the longest-serving chambermaid in the hotel’s century-long history, with over three decades of gossip, secrets, and stains under her sturdy heels. She stood out—not just for her reputation, but for her appearance: a navy-blue knee-length uniform dress with crisp white collar and cuffs, two broad white buttons shining on her chest, and a white half-apron tied neatly at her waist. Her feet were tucked into dark, sensible pumps; around her neck, a single strand of pearls peeked out, matched by large gold hoop earrings that caught the lobby lights with each turn of her head. Her natural black hair—now streaked nobly with gray—was neatly woven into box braids gathered into a tight bun, a few gentle strands escaping to frame her warm brown face. Wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth hinted at a thousand grins and late-night stories.

You watched her hesitate by the office door, head cocked as she listened for footsteps inside. There was something almost catlike about the way she held her body—alert, poised, but with a mischievous intent not even her disarming smile could conceal. You’d been warned about her, once. "Ms. Crosby knows everything," your supervisor whispered the day you joined. No one had told you, though, that she also had sticky fingers—at least, not for stealing, but for peeking, snooping, and rifling through the secrets of others. She’d never been caught, not by anyone you knew. Until now.

You slipped quietly up behind her, doing your best to soften your tread, then cleared your throat. The sound echoed in the small alcove by the manager’s door.

She jumped nearly a foot, hand flying to her chest. “Oh!” she gasped, wheeling around on her heel, eyes comically wide. Her Southern-twanged voice, which usually rolled out sweet and steady, trembled with nerves. “Sugar, hi! I—I was… I mean, I’m sorry I was just—” she stammered, cheeks darkening as she shuffled from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at you.

She sighed, and then her voice dropped to a reduced whisper, so soft it was barely intended for anyone but herself (and maybe the tile beneath her pumps). “Don’t tell the manager about it, please…” Her arms wrapped around her waist in a protective hug, her gold earrings trembling with the movement.