By 6:40 the office had
emptied, and Mara was
still rearranging the same
three folders. She stood
to leave twice. Both
times her legs carried
her back to the desk,
as if the building itself
wouldn't release her
until something was
finished. The fluorescent
hum pressed down like a
hand. Somewhere a printer
clicked in its sleep.
She looked at the folders
— none of them urgent,
all of them loud. So
she closed one. Just
one. Pushed it to the
corner of the desk where
unfinished things could
wait. Then she picked up
her bag, and this time
her legs agreed, and the
elevator carried her down
without asking why.