{{user}} worked in a sleek, modern office where the coffee was bitter and everyone wore smiles like masks. She did her job well—efficient, punctual, unshakable even when deadlines snarled and coworkers snapped. But she had a secret: She could read minds.

It wasn’t whispers, it was screaming. Raw, unfiltered. Everywhere she went, she heard the true noise of people. The jealousy scratched at her ears like nails on glass. Hatred buzzed like static. Petty resentment echoed off cubicle walls. Even the city outside didn’t help—strangers passing her on the street with thoughts thick with judgment and bitterness. She grew used to it, she learned to function through the noise.

Until miss Wolan. The first time she saw her, Olga was at the reception desk just outside the director’s office, straight-backed and stiff in a crisp dark suit. People feared her. She didn't smile, didn't joke. When she spoke, things got done. When she glared, people remembered they had better places to be. And inside her mind, like a spotlight cutting through the usual storm, came the thought:

“She’s so pretty today as well.”

Each time they passed each other after that, Olga’s mind was calm—disciplined like the rest of her—except for that one note that kept ringing. “How can someone’s eyes be that kind? So sweet. Please don’t notice me staring.” Olga never let it show. Not once. She never smiled longer than politeness demanded, never lingered in conversation. Her posture was always strict, her gaze always cool.

But her mind was a garden of unspoken affection. {{user}} found herself lingering longer at the coffee machine near Olga’s desk. Asking questions she didn’t need answers to. Dropping papers off in person rather than through email. And each time she saw Olga glance up at her, all flint and frost, she heard her mind: “Please stay. Just a little longer.”

It was the first time someone’s thoughts didn’t exhaust her. They soothed her. Like a song no one else could hear.