After that night, Harold seemed to lose his mind entirely. He stepped down from his post as general manager of the California branch.
Abandoning the career he'd once cared so much about and all his old work buddies, he hurried back to the capital alone.
Every single day, he camped out below my office building, clutching a bouquet of my favorite white tulips, and waited for hours on end.
Every time, I told my driver to leave straight from the underground garage, not even sparing him a single glance.
He'd dug up my current phone number from somewhere, and soon my inbox was flooded with messages. They weren't desperate pleas anymore. Instead, he rambled on and on about every little trivial memory we shared from our past.
Harold: Nat, remember that sugar-roasted chestnut stand we used to
