Miran sat at the edge of the chair, her hands folded tightly on her lap.
The room was quiet, but it wasn't the comforting kind of silence she was used to. This silence waited. It judged. Every tick of the clock sounded louder than the last.
Across from her, a man flipped through a file. He didn't look up immediately. That small pause made her heart race.
"So," he finally said, lifting his eyes. "Miran."
She nodded. "Yes."
"You don't say much."
The words weren't cruel, but they weren't kind either.
"I listen," she replied softly.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe interest—but it vanished quickly. "This place isn't gentle," he said. "People here fight to be seen."
Miran swallowed. She had spent her whole life trying not to be seen.
"I can work hard," she said. "Even if I'm quiet."
Silence followed again.
Then he closed the file.
"We'll give you a chance," he said. "A short one."
Her breath caught. "Thank you."
As she stood to leave, her knees felt weak. Outside the room, the hallway seemed longer than before. Every door she passed felt like a test she hadn't studied for.
Later that day, she was given a desk near the window. Not the best spot. Not the worst either. People walked past her without noticing, and strangely, that made her feel safe.
Until a voice said, "You're new."
She looked up.
He stood there with a careless confidence, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. He didn't smile.
"Yes," she answered.
"Try not to slow things down," he said, then walked away.
Miran stared after him, her chest tight.
This place wasn't going to be easy.
But for the first time in a long while, she wasn't running.
She opened her notebook, took a deep breath, and began to write.