Remy
Holland came in before the lobby was supposed to be opened.
I heard the lobby door, the quick cadence of her steps, the brief pause at the stairwell like a swimmer testing water with a toe—then the steady climb. No knock. The handle turned and she slipped into my office, soft as a thought you’ve been having all night and decide to say out loud in the morning.
“Good morning,” I said, surprised at how careful my voice came out. I’d expected avoidance, a polite orbit. I hadn’t expected Holland, hair damp, eyes clear, walking into the room I’d told everyone she didn’t have to enter.
“Good morning,” she echoed. She looked at the chair across from my desk, didn’t sit, then looked at the painting instead: a wolf in a fogged forest, the one I keep because it makes the room tell the truth
