The Ministry of Justice still bore his scent.
Even after his exile, Christopher Cross's name lingered in the corridors — in the whispers of junior clerks, in the precise order of files no one dared rearrange.
It was as if the building itself remembered him.
That morning, a pale dawn struggled through the Windsor mist. A young clerk moved through the east wing with a bundle of folders, muttering about lost memoranda. He turned a corner — and froze.
There, at the far end of the corridor, stood a man.
Tall. Still. His face half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hat.
He wasn't supposed to be there. No one was.
Before the clerk could speak, the man lifted a gloved finger — not to threaten, but to silence. A small gesture, precise. Familiar.
The clerk's breath caught. His hands trembled, the papers slipping slightly in his grasp. He blinked once — uncertain, afraid to breathe too loudly.
It couldn't be.
The Minister…?
By the time he blinked again, the corridor was empty.
