"Mind the corner. The plaster's still wet."
The worker said it as I passed the stair, with a brush in one hand and a small pot beside his boot. I moved away from the wall. He bent to reach the lower patch, and I continued toward the records desk.
Three steps later, I heard him say it again.
"Mind the corner. The plaster's still wet."
Same pause after corner. Same rough catch at the end, as if he had cleared his throat without quite finishing.
I looked back.
The passage behind me was empty. His brush stood above the same pale patch.
"Did I get too close?" I asked.
He glanced at my coat.
"Doesn't look like it."
"You warned me twice."
"People forget once they get past me."
That was possible. It was an ordinary thing for a worker guarding fresh plaster to do. He dipped the brush and returned to the wall. I stayed where I was long enough that he looked up again.
"Did you need this way?"
"No."
I moved on.
