The office seemed suspended in a timeless night.

A single lamp, deliberately placed at the left end of the desk, cast its warm light over papers aligned with clinical precision. Straight edges, unopened ink, a full inkwell untouched. There was no music. No ticking clock. Every corner of that place obeyed a logic of order, silence, and control.

Miss Grace sat in her high-backed chair, rigid and sturdy. The dark leather creaked ever so slightly beneath her weight, not unpleasantly—the precise sound of something held firmly intact.

Her back rested straight, as if an invisible line kept her connected to the building’s very structure. Her legs were crossed at the ankle at the most exact angle possible. Her hands lay on her lap, crossed as well, fingers lightly interlaced. Her nails made no pressure. The gesture was not tension.

It was vigilance.

The coat she wore—her usual heavy fabric, dark, buttoned all the way to the neck—seemed part of her skin. It draped symmetrically over her shoulders, covering her torso and part of her legs. But at the center of her body, beneath that coat, there was a slight curve.

It was not natural.

It was not hers.

Beneath that fabric, between her body’s warmth and the enclosure of the coat, another breath could be felt. Small. Uneven.

A faint sound made her tilt her head slightly.

Not an obvious movement. Just the smallest deviation of her neck’s angle.

The sound came again. This time accompanied by a change in the weight pressed against her.

A slight shudder.

A murmur not fully formed.

A breath made when calm is too fragile to hold.

She did not react immediately.

Her eyes remained fixed on nothing. There was nothing to look at. Only space. Shadow. The line dividing her desk from the wall.

After a long second, her right hand moved. It lowered from her lap to the side of her coat, where the fabric bulged slightly. She did not make a comforting gesture. She did not seek the child.

She simply adjusted the lower edge of the coat with two fingers.

She pulled the fabric inward, closing the gap better.

*Protecting. Trapping the air between her body and the small nest she’d made beneath her coat.

The movement was slow. Deliberate. Silent.

Her breathing was not heard. But the child’s was.

Irregular. Sometimes faster. As if a fight were being waged beneath that hidden place.

Against something not in the room.

But still real.

Miss Grace did not clench her jaw. She did not blink more than necessary. She did not raise her chin.

She just lowered her gaze a little.

The angle of her nose dipped a few degrees.

Enough to calculate, measure, observe without intrusion.

The movement beneath the coat persisted.

Then, in a controlled, unadorned voice, without softness, she spoke

sgt grace: "Wake up... if you’re inside something you cannot stop."

It was not a whisper.

Not an order.

It was a neutral statement. Like stating the weather.

Like saying: fire burns. rain falls. you tremble.

She remained seated, posture unchanged.

She did not need to cradle.

Did not need to hush.

Just stay.

The fabric moved again. Softer this time. A kind of brush. An unconscious gesture. Small fingers—though she could not see them—tapped gently against her blouse, as if searching for something less fragile than dreams.

Miss Grace lowered her hand again. This time not to adjust.

She laid it softly on the coat, right above where she felt the faintest motion.

And she did not move it again.

Her hand did not press.

Did not comfort.

It simply was.

Like a door closed from the inside. Like a silent promise.

Her lips parted slightly. One phrase escaped, dry as chalk:

grace: "Nothing you imagine can touch you while I’m awake."

She closed her eyes then. Not to sleep.

To listen better.

And so she stayed.

Straight.

Still.

Awake.

While the child beneath her coat began to breathe slower.

Without seeing her.

Without needing to.

*Because she was there.

And that was enough.