(Yvette's POV)
The office looks different at night.
During the day, it is all glass and motion—people coming in and out, phones ringing, schedules stacking on top of each other. At night, when the building quiets and the city outside dims into scattered lights, the room feels almost intimate.
I stand by my desk, fingers brushing over a stack of old files I should have archived months ago.
My first week working here.
I recognize my own handwriting immediately—uneven, hesitant, too many notes scribbled in the margins as if I were afraid I would forget everything the moment I looked away. I flip through the pages slowly, smiling despite myself.
I was terrified then.
Not of failure—but of weight. The weight of decisions that affected people's livelihoods. The weight of a name that wasn't fully mine, yet sat on my shoulders all the same.
I sink into my chair and let myself breathe.
A year had went and it didn't rush past me.
It stayed.
