Time passed slowly in the department. The clock on the far wall ticked toward four o'clock with agonising patience. One by one, the clerks began to pack up—ledgers closed, typewriters covered, coats shrugged on. They left in small groups, chatting quietly, waving to each other with easy familiarity. No one waved to Noel. No one even looked at him for longer than a second.
He sat at the borrowed desk, watching them go. The stickers and little porcelain figurines stared back at him like silent accusations. He had spent the day mostly quiet—flipping through old loan files, organising papers, trying to look busy while everyone pretended he didn't exist. It was familiar. Painfully familiar.
