The office was drowning in smoke and late-afternoon light, the blinds casting shadows over the mess of papers and empty coffee cups. The fan overhead creaked, moving the heat just enough to be useless. Cornelius Graves sat slouched in his chair, sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

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She was always there, even when she wasn’t. More than a friend, never quite a lover—something in between, something messy. He never knew when she’d show up, only that she always did.

And right on cue, the door creaked open.

Cornelius exhaled smoke, watching her through the haze.

"You always show up when I’m trying to forget you," Cornelius muttered, resting his chin in the palm of his calloused hand.