The old office smelled of ink, winter air, and a kind of dust that settled only in rooms where arguments had been stored for years.
Alpha Anderson sat behind the desk, shoulders heavy, as Clara stepped inside.
She didn't wait to be offered a seat. Instead, she placed a small ring of keys on the polished wood—house, storerooms, side gates—each one landing with a quiet, final clink.
“My obligations," she said. “Returned."
His gaze dropped to the keys. “And your room?"
“Cleared," she replied. “The minder schedule's in the top drawer of my desk. You won't need it anymore."
---
He exhaled through his nose. “You would leave like this? Without—"
“A list of reasons?" she said. “You've had three years to give me one. I won't take a late submission."
He leaned back, pride fraying into somet
