The first question was asked quietly.
So quietly that, at first, Alfian wasn't sure it was meant for him.
They were standing near the printer—an unremarkable place where people said things they didn't want remembered. The machine hummed steadily, indifferent to whatever weight passed through its presence.
"Can I ask you something?" the woman said.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed on her phone, thumb hovering as if she could scroll away from the moment.
Alfian nodded. "Of course."
She hesitated—just long enough to consider retreat.
"Is it true," she asked, "that some things don't move anymore unless they pass through you?"
The question was framed as curiosity. Casual. Almost careless.
But it landed with precision.
Alfian didn't answer immediately. He waited for the printer to finish, watched the last page slide into place.
"Things move," he said at last. "Just not all at once."
She smiled faintly, relieved by the neutrality. "Right. I thought so."
She took her papers and left without another word.
The question stayed.
By midday, it was no longer alone.
A message arrived from operations.
Is there a reason this request was rerouted? We're trying to understand the criteria.
No accusation. No demand. Just an attempt to locate logic in a system that had stopped behaving predictably.
Alfian read it twice before replying.
Criteria hasn't changed. Assumptions might have.
The response came quickly.
Understood. Thank you.
No follow-up.
Raka noticed the exchange and leaned against the desk opposite him.
"They're not angry," Raka said.
"No."
"They're confused."
"Yes."
Raka exhaled slowly. "That's worse."
"Confusion invites interpretation," Alfian said.
"And interpretation invites stories."
"Stories travel faster than data."
Raka didn't argue.
In the afternoon, the questions shifted.
They were no longer about processes.
They were about people.
A meeting ended early. Chairs scraped softly. Someone lingered by the door.
"Alfian," the man said. "Got a minute?"
They stepped into the hallway, where the light was dimmer and the air cooler.
"We've noticed delays downstream," the man said carefully. "Nothing dramatic. Just accumulation."
"I'm aware."
"We're not assigning blame."
"I wouldn't accept it if you did."
That earned a brief smile. "We're trying to understand impact."
"Impact exists," Alfian said. "Whether it's acknowledged or not."
The man hesitated. "People are starting to ask if holding things back is… intentional."
Alfian met his gaze. "People always ask that."
"Yes," the man said. "But usually there's an answer."
Alfian didn't offer one.
After a moment, the man exhaled. "Right. Thank you for your time."
He walked away.
Raka emerged from around the corner.
"That was a clean question," Raka said.
"And you didn't clean it up."
"No."
"You're letting uncertainty stand."
"I'm letting them decide what to do with it."
The next question came from somewhere unexpected.
A junior analyst—new enough to still believe in explanations—approached Alfian's desk near the end of the day.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I don't mean to interrupt."
"It's fine."
She swallowed. "I just wanted to check… is there a guideline I missed? About approvals?"
There was no calculation in her face. Only concern.
"No guideline," Alfian said.
Her shoulders loosened. "Okay. I thought maybe something changed."
"There was," Alfian replied. "But not the kind that gets written down."
She frowned. "Then how do we know what to do?"
Alfian paused.
"That depends," he said, "on what you think the process is for."
She blinked, absorbing it. Then nodded slowly. "Right."
She walked back to her desk more carefully than before.
Raka watched her go.
"She'll remember that."
"Yes."
"She'll adapt," Raka said. "Or leave."
As evening approached, the questions stopped being asked aloud.
They moved into looks.
Into pauses.
Into messages typed and deleted before sending.
Alfian felt it in the way people waited before speaking to him. In how conversations shifted when he entered a room—not quieter, just more deliberate.
Distance, once procedural, had become personal.
Raka joined him as he packed his bag.
"You crossed a line," Raka said quietly.
"Which one?"
"The one where silence stops protecting people."
Alfian considered that. "Silence never protected them. It only delayed harm."
"And now?"
"Now they choose what they're willing to accept."
Raka studied him. "That includes you."
"Yes."
They left the building together. At the corner, Raka stopped.
"They'll keep asking," he said. "Not loudly. Not together. But persistently."
"Yes."
"And eventually someone will ask the wrong one."
"Yes."
Raka hesitated. "What will you do then?"
Alfian looked back at the building—at the lights, the glass, the people still inside, navigating a system that pretended not to notice the space he had created.
"I'll answer," he said. "Just not in the way they expect."
Raka smiled thinly. "That's what I thought."
They parted without ceremony.
That night, Alfian reviewed the day not in events, but in moments—the printer, the hallway, the junior analyst's question.
None demanded action.
None accused him.
But together, they formed something irreversible.
The system was no longer just adjusting.
People were.
And once questions take root, silence no longer belongs to procedure alone.
It belongs to choice.