Through Time, For You.

Episode Two

Mr. Harrington is dead.

The words circle in my head like vultures, picking at the last resolve I was trying to hold onto. My breath comes out in short gasps. One second, I'm in my office – the next, I'm standing in his office again. He's sitting in his chair, turning slightly to the window. The same way I'd found him that morning.

“Mr. Harrington?” I'd said, handing him the Zephyrlink folder.

He blinked out of whatever fog he'd been drifting in. But his eyes – God those eyes that seemed more green than brown – held something soft in them. Almost… human. But they were gone as soon as they came – almost like I had imagined it.

“You never talk about your family” I had blurted – hands slamming over my mouth.

His brows lifted, but he didn't answer at first - as if now thinking about the question. Then, his shoulders slumped, like something in him had deflated.

“You never asked”

That was the last thing he had ever said to me. And now he was gone, and I could barely breathe.

The office hums around me in broken fragments – mouse clicking, soft whispers. All of it felt wrong. Everyone seemed to have adjusted to this new pattern, so why was I still reeling? Mr. Harrington's door was still shut. No nameplate, no warning sign or even tape. Just closed – like he never existed. I pause, my hand hovering over the door knob.

“What're you doing?”

When did I get here?

I turn. It's Gina again and this time with a paper cup in both hands. She handed one over to me – mocha, just what I needed.

“Did you really come all the way here to be HR's little watchdog?” I ask, voice scratching.

She rolls her eyes, a smile teasing her lips, but there's no bite. “No. I came because of you. "I was worried.” Taking a sip from her cup, she continues, “You've ghosted me for three days and if I let you stay in your head much longer, I'm afraid that you'll never come out.”

I sigh, taking the coffee, but I don't thank her, she doesn't expect me to.

“You look like shit.” She says matter of fact, sitting on the hallway bench across from his office.

“Thanks” I chuckled, joining her.

“I meant it as a compliment. "Welcome to the club” Her smile is short – tired. I sip my drink, hiding my smile. I needed to do that more often. Gina bumps her knee against mine slightly, and for a moment, we're just two overworked assistants dodging burnout with sarcasm and caffeine.

***

Gina leaves me on the bench, promising to check back in later. I watched her walk off – her heels clicking softly against the polished floors before slowly making my way back to my office. The corridor thrums with low chatter and the soft whirl of the central AC. My stomach twists at how everyone's pretending like everything is normal – like the world didn't just tilt days ago.

My desk stares back at me. It felt impersonal with my coffee mug gone. I sank into my chair, the weight in my chest heavier than it was yesterday.

Not more than ten minutes later, there's a sharp knock on my door before William fills the hallway. He steps in slowly, his brown curls tousled like he had run his hand through them too many times today. His usually warm eyes are rimmed red with exhaustion. He doesn't say anything right away, just settles in the chair opposite me.

“Sorry to disturb you”

“Don't worry about it”

There's a beat of silence before he exhales like this room was the only place he could safely do so.

“You holding up okay?”

I nod, but my throat is tight. “I'm not sure. I think I'm just…”

He stares at the table.

“Same.”

There's another pause.

Then softer, “I know you've already heard. But the autopsy confirmed what we feared.”

I flinch.

“Suicide”

Suicide. I looked away not saying anything – I couldn't trust my voice to do so.

“I hate this part,” he continues, rubbing at his temple. “The press, the reports, the board… acting like he was just another number.”

I did too.

His voice breaks slightly and I glance at him. Williams' shoulders are curved inwards, like he's trying to make himself smaller. He doesn't cry – I don't think he can, but there's something raw in his face.

“I thought we had more time,” he says, quietly. I thought he was finally opening up. I should've… I should've done something”

I'm tempted to say that it's not his fault or anyone else's. That none of us knew. But my mouth won't move, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't help but remember the last thing he had said to me:

“You never asked”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a brown-leather-bound item – a journal.

“I found this in his drawer when we were clearing it out. I thought… maybe you should have it.”

I blink. “Why me?”

He shrugs, “I think he trusted you more than he let on.”

My hands shake as I reach out and wrap my fingers around it. It's worn around its edges and the pages are barely hanging on.

Standing, he says “Take your time.” Then gives me one last look – a mix of grief and acceptance – before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

I don't move right away. I just sit there, the book resting on my lap like a ticking bomb. The thought of reading it makes my chest feel tight.

The office thins out. Lights dim on the motion sensors. Gina and Troy stop by, but I don't remember what I told them. I still don't move though. The book remained in my lap, untouched.

I don't know how long I was sitting there, but when I finally checked the time, it was 2:17 a.m.

I don't remember packing my things or getting into an Uber. Just a blur of cold leather seats and city lights bleeding into each other. The driver doesn't say a word, and I'm grateful for the silence. I press my forehead towards the window and close my eyes – trying not to fall apart in the backseat.

My phone buzzes a few times in the backseat, but I don't bother to check it, I don't think I have the strength to. When I finally stumbled into my apartment, I dropped my bag by the door and headed straight into the shower. The water is hot, too hot, and I scrub my skin until it turns pink. Later, I curl up in bed, hair wrapped in a towel, skin still damp. The weight of the journal pressed into my chest like it was breathing with me. Sleep doesn't come easily to me, but when it does, my thoughts go back to that one sentence.

“You never asked”

If I'd made him feel like he didn't have to carry it all alone… or paid closer attention to him. Then maybe… just maybe, he wouldn't have wanted to die.

***

I jolt awake, my heart pounding. My room is dim. Only the early light of dawn slips through the blinds. My towel had fallen onto the sheets sometime during the night, but the journal was still tucked against my rib. The buzz continues, so I reach for my phone, eyes half closed. Three texts. All from Mira.

Mira?

My chest tightens. We haven't spoken in… months. Not since…

I sit up slowly, unlocking my screen.

Mira: I'll stop by your office today.

Sorry I didn't call earlier.

June?

I blink.

What?

It was like my brain was lagging.

And then, just as I'm about to type something – anything – another message slides onto the top of my screen. Not Mira's.

Mr. Harrington.

Mr. Harrington: Coffee at 7. Don't be late. I'm not waiting for you this time.

I stop breathing.

No, no, no.

My fingers hover over the screen as I check the time stamp. This morning. But that's impossible. He died. I was there. I saw the empty coffin. The shut blinds… the funeral. Even the damn journal – which I was still holding. And now he's texting me like nothing happened? Like it's just a regular Tuesday?