The first thing I notice isn't a headline.
It's the silence.
When I step into the office that morning, conversations pause—not abruptly, not awkwardly, but just enough to be perceptible. The kind of pause people make when they don't want to be caught mid-sentence. The kind that pretends to be coincidence.
I've lived long enough—twice, if I'm being honest—to recognize the difference.
I walk past the reception desk with a polite nod. The receptionist smiles back, her expression a little too careful. Her eyes flick briefly to her screen, then back to me, as if checking whether she's allowed to say something.
She doesn't.
That tells me everything.
Inside the elevator, a pair of managers stand a little straighter than usual. One of them starts to speak, stops, then clears his throat.
"Good morning, Ms. Matthews," he says, overly formal.
"Good morning," I reply, equally calm.
The doors close, and the elevator hums upward.
I don't ask what they were talking about.
