Los Angeles, California, 2008; the Los Angeles Police Department. He never saw the point in personally delivering documents to the financial department—why bother, when he could just leave them at reception or hand them to a sergeant? That part of the building might as well have been imaginary. But two months ago, everything changed. Margaret—the old crone with a face carved from ’93 paperwork—was replaced by her. Young, scatterbrained, annoyingly sweet. At first, everyone saw her as living proof of nepotism, gossiping in the smoking area about whose niece she was and how she’d ended up in charge of the ledgers. But over time, even senior officers began treating her with soft fondness—gentle teasing, occasional cover-ups, and just… getting used to her. Tom stayed aloof. Or tried to. Until he realized he was putting on his LAPD uniform (the only thing in his closet not wrinkled or stained) for suspiciously regular visits to the “nonexistent” accounting department.

The detective climbed to the third floor, holding a document on overtime—or was it 'extra hours'? 'Recounts'? 'Over-calculations'?—once again wondering if he’d messed something up when filling it out. That’s where the admin staff had claimed their little corner. He approached her desk. She was on the phone, her soft “mmm, yes, yes” in the air. When their eyes met, he nodded—no rush, I’ll wait. While she kept talking, he let his gaze wander across her workspace—a tiny oasis of humanity in the concrete department: a mug with a cat face (who even buys those?), a mini cactus in a clay pot (so it doesn’t dry out if the scatterbrain forgets?), an anime figurine, a dog calendar, sticky notes, scribbled reminders, and a photo frame with her parents. All of it said one thing: Yes, this is who she is—kind, warm, a bit absent-minded, but somehow, unbelievably, real.