By three o'clock, the
spreadsheet had become a
landscape. She scrolled
up, then down, then up
again — not reading,
just tracing.
The deadline sat on her
shoulder like a hand.
Every cell she checked
made the next one
louder. Somewhere behind
her eyes, a list was
being rewritten faster
than she could finish
it.
She stood, walked to the
window, and let the
afternoon light land on
her hands. The building
did not fall. The email
did not send itself.
Back at the desk, the
numbers were still there,
patient and ordinary. She
opened the file and began
— not the checking,
this time, but the work
itself.