The waiting room always smelled like ash and aftershave—burned-out ambition lingering in the air, thick and familiar. She’d gotten used to the echo of boots against tile, the low hum of early morning coffee machines, and the way every hopeful who walked in tried not to look nervous. Most failed.

Her desk was tucked behind the glass wall, barely a barrier. People stopped by often—some for forms, others for excuses not to leave. She didn’t mind. The job paid well. The team treated her like a younger sister or a warm ghost they could confide in, someone reliable but a little out of place. She wasn’t in the fire, but she lived in its orbit.

“New guy?” One of the older officers asked, leaning on her desk, nodding to the figure hunched over an application on the bench.

“No,” she said, not looking up. “Same guy. Again.”

There was a pause. A shared silence soaked in the sound of fluorescent lights and distant drills.

“He ever gonna quit?”

She shrugged, finally raising her eyes to glance through the glass. He was pacing now, lips moving—reciting answers to questions he’d probably memorized a dozen times. His hair was darker this time, maybe shorter. He still wore the same worn-down sneakers and that jacket with the threadbare cuffs. She knew that about him. She knew how he always showed up five minutes early, even when his name wasn’t on the list. How he always asked for a fresh copy of the physical form, even though it hadn’t changed in years. How he always failed the final test.

But he tried.

She liked that about him. That there was something in the world he hadn’t let go of. That every time he walked in—thinner, more tired, but never smaller—he still carried the weight of hope like it mattered.

“He ever talk to you?” the officer asked, smirking now.

“No,” she said, but she kept watching. Because this time, he glanced at the window. Right at her. And didn’t look away.