Leah stayed longer than usual that night.The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt almost like company as she typed, deleted, and retyped the same paragraph of the quarterly summary. Her focus kept slipping back to the envelope resting in her drawer, the words printed inside replaying in her mind.
Silence doesn't erase the truth.
She pressed her palm to her forehead, exhaling. It was ridiculous—just a few words. Yet they echoed with familiarity she couldn't shake.
At 9:27 p.m., the office floor was deserted. A few screens still glowed in standby mode, and the city lights outside cast fractured reflections on the glass walls. Leah gathered her files and stood, intending to leave, when she heard it—Footsteps.
Slow.Measured.Coming from the corridor.
Her pulse quickened. Everyone else had clocked out hours ago.
She turned off her monitor, waiting. The footsteps drew closer, pausing just beyond the frosted glass. For a moment, there was only silence. Then a soft knock.
"Still here?"Adrian's voice. Low. Controlled. Familiar enough to ease the edge from her nerves—almost.
Leah exhaled. "You scared me," she admitted, unlocking the door.
He was standing there in his dark coat, hair slightly tousled, tie loosened. Not his usual immaculate appearance. He looked… tired. Real. The kind of tired you didn't show unless you trusted someone to see it.
"I thought everyone had gone home," she said quietly.
"I could say the same about you," he replied, stepping inside. "You shouldn't stay this late."
"I wanted to finish the reports." She gestured to the stack of papers. "Besides, I work better when it's quiet."
His eyes moved to the drawer—the one she'd closed earlier. "And does quiet help you forget, too?"
Her breath caught. "Forget what?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the window, looking out at the scattered city lights. "The world has a strange way of repeating itself, Leah. Sometimes in whispers, sometimes on paper."
She looked at him, unease threading through curiosity. "You think you know what's in that envelope."
"I don't think," he said, turning back to face her. "I know."
Something in his tone made her heart skip. "Then why ask me about it?"
"Because I wanted to see your reaction," he said simply. "And because whatever you're caught in—you need to be careful."
Leah crossed her arms, irritation mixing with confusion. "You make it sound like I'm hiding something."
Adrian's gaze softened—fractionally. "Aren't we all?"
For a moment, the silence between them stretched, heavy with things unsaid. The faint hum of the air vent, the distant car horns outside, even the soft static of the city—everything felt muted beneath the weight of their stillness.
When he stepped closer, Leah's pulse stuttered. He wasn't close enough to touch, but close enough that the air between them warmed. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer.
"If you ever feel unsafe… tell me," he said. "Don't try to handle it alone."
Her throat tightened. "Why do you care?"
For the first time, something almost like a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's just say I've seen this before."
He turned to leave, hand brushing lightly against her desk as he passed. Just before he reached the door, she found herself saying, "Adrian."
He stopped, looking back.Leah hesitated, words catching in her throat, then finally whispered, "Thank you."
He gave a slow nod, his gaze steady. "Lock the door when you leave."
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall—steady, deliberate. But after he disappeared, Leah stood there, staring at the space he'd occupied, the air still carrying his quiet intensity.
Outside, rain began to fall—soft, rhythmic against the glass. She finally sat back down, opened the drawer, and looked at the envelope again. The edges seemed darker now, like it absorbed the night itself.
In the reflection of the window, she caught her own expression—uncertain, but awake in a way she hadn't been for years.
Maybe silence didn't erase the truth.Maybe it only delayed it.
And somewhere down the corridor, Adrian paused before stepping into the elevator, pulling his phone from his coat pocket. He opened a message that had arrived minutes earlier—no name, just a single line:
You told her, didn't you?
His jaw tightened. He closed the phone and slipped it away, the reflection of the city lights flickering across his eyes.
The game, it seemed, had begun again.