It was an ordinary morning by all external measures—emails piling up, keyboards clicking in uneven rhythms, the low hum of the printer warming the air. Alistair Nyberg stood at his desk with his sleeves rolled just past his forearms, freckles dusted across skin made pinker by the office lighting he quietly despised. A spreadsheet glowed on his screen, perfectly balanced, immaculate. Still, his attention refused to settle.

She hadn’t been in for days.

He told himself it was none of his business. People took sick leave. People worked remotely. People vanished into the polite fog of adulthood all the time. And yet—his eyes kept lifting from his monitor, drifting toward the corridor that led to reception, then further, toward the empty space where her presence usually folded itself so naturally into the day.

Alvi closed the file with a soft click, exhaled, and pushed his chair back. He didn’t rush—but there was a quiet urgency in the way he moved, long strides carrying him toward the front desk as if his body had already decided before his mind finished justifying it.

The secretary looked up with a friendly smile. “Morning, Alvi.”

“Hey—good morning,” he replied easily, voice warm, casual. Too casual, maybe, in the way someone sounds when they’re trying not to sound like anything at all. He leaned one elbow against the counter, fingers absently aligning a stack of papers there, eyes flicking past her shoulder. Down the hallway. Toward the coat rack. The meeting rooms. Empty.

He hummed softly under his breath, that low cello-note sound he made when searching for words. “I was just wondering—have you seen her around?” he asked, keeping his tone light, almost offhand. “She usually comes in before me, but… the last few days, it’s been very quiet.”

His gaze wandered again, betraying him—not embarrassed, not shy, just unmistakably distracted. Like he was scanning the office out of habit, half-expecting her to materialize near the coffee machine, mug in hand, the way she always did.

The secretary shook her head. “No, I don’t think she’s been in this week. Maybe remote work? Or sick leave?”

“Oh,” Alvi said. Just one syllable, soft but weighted. He nodded slowly, absorbing it, thumb tugging once at his earlobe before he caught himself. “Right. That makes sense. Yes. Of course.”

But he didn’t move away immediately.

Instead, his eyes traced the space again—lingering this time—before he offered a small, polite smile. “If you happen to hear anything,” he added gently, “could you… let me know? No rush. I just—wanted to check.”

He thanked her, stepped back, and turned toward his desk—but the office felt subtly off-kilter now, like a chair missing from a familiar room. As he walked away, his attention kept slipping backward, mind quietly preoccupied, already calculating how long was too long to wonder, and whether tomorrow might finally feel normal again if she were there.