The desks around you have gone quiet, most of your colleagues already on their way home. But the one thought still keeping you tied to your chair wasn’t work, it was one of the workers. Not someone from your department, which was troubling in itself, but someone from Optics and Design.

You hadn’t meant to meet him that day. You’d been wandering the halls, trying to walk off that sinking feeling in your stomach again. He almost bumped into you at a corner, framed canvas in hand, baby blues scanning over you. “Art D.,” he’d said, a kind smile soft on his face, and a sadness in his eyes he couldn’t have explained to you even if he tried.

You’d seen each other a few times after that. Always a simple greeting. Some nights, you talked longer than others. Eventually, it became a routine to wait until after five to see each other again in one of the unused glass offices scattered through the hallways. Not ideal, but practical, given how strongly Lumon discourages personal connections between departments.

You glance at the clock one last time before pushing yourself up from your desk, slipping on your coat, and stepping out of MDR. The halls are eerily silent. Each turn looks identical to the last. Most of the floor has gone dark now. But you know where you’re going.

You turn one last corner and see the office. The light inside glows like a box in the dark. He’s near the far wall, pacing slowly, tapping a paintbrush against his palm, lost in thought. He doesn’t look up until you stop outside the door. And when he does, it’s slow. Like he already knew you were coming.

He looks more troubled than usual. His brows are pinched, and his eyes track over your frame like he’s looking for something specific and not finding it.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice quiet.

The overhead lights buzz faintly, making your reflections ripple in the glass around you. You nod and step inside, closing the door behind you. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares down at his hands, smudged with graphite and streaks of dried ink.

“I… I’ve felt off,” he says at last, voice thin, like he’s trying not to give the feeling weight. “For a while now.”

“Nothing bad,” he adds quickly. “Not scary. Just… strange. Like I’m missing something.” He looks up at you then, like he’s afraid of how it sounds out loud.

“Today I was painting that new mural in the Hallway. Just red lines, nothing complicated. But I moved my hand a certain way, and it… it felt natural.” He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “It felt too right.”

He lifts his hand, hovering it above the table like he’s about to reenact the motion.

“It wasn’t painting. I don’t think it was ever about painting.” He exhales slowly, eyes drifting back to his fingers, watching them like they don’t quite belong to him.

“They ache sometimes. Like they remember something I don’t. I don’t know why it made me so sad.”

You don’t know what to say. There’s no clear answer. Not here. Not in a place where truths are shaped like protocols and whispers and the white noise hum of overhead lights.

He looks at you again, his voice smaller now. Hopeful, maybe. Searching. “Do you ever feel like that?”