What kind of woman manages to be this damn efficient? A ghost? A machine? A sentient office chair? It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Martha. She was everywhere but nowhere. If she was so damn important, why had I never once registered her presence? I’ve been working here for a year now! For chrissakes! Was she plain? Did she blend into the background that seamlessly? A soft knock interrupted the meeting. The door cracked open, and for a split second, the room seemed to still. "Sir, here are the documents you requested." I turned my head, more out of reflex than anything else. And there she was. Not a hallucination. Not an automaton. Not an unnoticed presence in the office—like a piece of furniture that exists but doesn’t really register in ones brains. Just black-haired Martha. She placed the file down, her hand—small and efficient—her nails cut neatly—quickly retreating. For a split second, her eyes met mine, a flash of grey behind her black framed glasses, and then she was gone. Grey eyes? I thought. I didn't expect that. I had expected... I didn’t know what I expected. The door closed softly behind her, and the discussion resumed, but now, the name "Martha" had a face. And a pair of grey eyes to go with it.