Tuesday arrived with the particular quality of days that were required to look ordinary and weren't.
Elena was at her desk by seven forty-five. Hair pinned. Glasses. The precise reconstruction of Elena Vale that she performed every morning with the same four minutes and the same three pins and the same deliberate return to the surface of a woman who asked nothing of this building except to be useful in it. She sat down. She opened her screen. She pulled up Adrian's calendar and reviewed it with the same focused attention she brought to everything and felt, underneath the routine, the specific hum of a day that was going to require more of her than the routine acknowledged.
Adrian arrived at eight-oh-three.
He said: "Vale."
She said: "Good morning. Frankfurt needs a response on the amen
