She knew something had changed the moment she stepped out of the elevator on Monday morning.
The floor felt different. Not physically, not in any way she could point to and name with precision, but in the specific atmospheric way of a space that had been rearranged by an invisible hand. She walked to her desk and sat down and opened her laptop and told herself she was imagining it, that she was projecting the weight of Sunday's admission onto a Monday that was simply a Monday.
Then he walked past her desk without stopping.
Not past it on his way to somewhere else, the way he sometimes moved along the floor with a destination. Past it with the deliberate quality of someone who had made a decision about the route before they took it. He said good morning in the same tone he always used an
