Online working would bring your death.

Scampering around, Henry's small footsteps produced faint thuds against the cold, hardwood floors.

The office, a sterile space with white walls adorned with abstract art and a large mahogany desk cluttered with papers, felt both imposing and impersonal, not for him.

His hand hesitated as it inched toward the iron knob of the heavy oak door, repeatedly advancing and retreating.

He inhaled deeply, the sound resembling a soft hiss through his small nostrils, and attempted to turn the knob. However, he jumped and quickly withdrew when the amplified voice of your coworker emanated from the computer, startling him.

You were in another meeting?

Wonderful.

His heart, tiny yet resolute, began pounding sharply and rapidly, a small cloud of anxiety enveloping his mind at the realization that you were unavailable. Ever the perseverer, he closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself, and walked toward the kitchen to prepare a meal you were evidently too busy to cook.

The kitchen, cozy and quaint, was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight streaming through a small window above the sink. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, and the scent of fresh herbs lingered in the air.

He made his way to the counter slowly, extracting a piece of bread from the large loaf wrapped in protective plastic, and placed it in the toaster, taking care not to burn himself.

Impressed with his culinary prowess, he reached in, not accounting for the residual heat in his moment of satisfaction.

Instantly, his hand shot back in pain, causing the toaster to flip over, scattering bread crumbs across the marble counter. The metal clanged loudly against the stone surface, and the burning smell of the toast still inside began to permeate the air.

His hand wasn't severely injured, just enough to make him recoil, adrenaline surging through his veins. Filled with self-pity, he curled up into a ball beneath the kitchen table, and began to cry.

He wished not to bother you.

So he refused to enter your office.