Elara wakes before the alarm because something in her always does.
It isn't anxiety, and it isn't anticipation. It's more like an internal agreement her body has made with the world: this is when we begin. The light filtering through the thin curtains is pale and undecided, hovering somewhere between night and morning. She lies still for a moment, eyes open, breathing slow, letting the quiet settle around her.
Her apartment is small but intentional. Nothing here is accidental. The chair by the window, the neatly stacked books, the single framed photograph on the shelf that she hasn't replaced in years. It is a space that knows her habits well enough not to demand attention.
She gets up.
The bathroom mirror greets her with honesty. No judgment. Just fact. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, then steps into the shower, letting the warmth soak into her shoulders. The water steadies her thoughts, the way it always does. By the time she steps out and wraps a towel around herself, the day has already arranged itself in her mind.
Clothes come next. She chooses them the way she chooses most things—based on reliability rather than excitement. A blouse that fits without effort. Slacks that don't need adjusting. She dries her hair, then pauses, fingers hovering, before deciding to leave it loose. It feels like a small indulgence, and she doesn't question why she wants it today.
When she leaves her apartment, she locks the door carefully, tugging the handle once to be sure. Outside, the city is waking in pieces. A delivery truck idles at the curb. Someone jogs past, earbuds in, face focused. Elara joins the flow without disrupting it.
The law firm rises ahead of her, glass and steel reflecting a version of the city that looks calmer than it feels. Inside, the lobby smells faintly of polish and coffee. She greets the security guard with a nod, scans in, and steps into the elevator just as the doors begin to close.
"Sorry—" someone says, sliding a hand between the doors.
The elevator halts.
She turns instinctively, stepping back to make room. The man who enters murmurs a quick thanks, eyes already on his phone. They stand in silence as the doors close again, the familiar ascent beginning. Elara doesn't look at him again. There's no reason to.
By the time she reaches her floor, her focus has returned to the list forming in her head.
Her desk sits where it always has—close enough to hear the rhythm of the office, far enough not to be interrupted unnecessarily. She settles in quickly, scanning emails, flagging documents, making notes in the margin of a file she knows will come back to her later.
It does.
"Hey, Elara?"
She looks up to see one of the associates standing awkwardly near her desk, file clutched to his chest like a shield.
"Can I ask you something? Just quickly."
"Of course."
He exhales, relief immediate. "This clause. I've read it three times and I still don't like it."
She gestures for the file. Reads once. Then again.
"You're right not to like it," she says calmly. "It leaves too much room for interpretation. If it ever gets questioned, it won't hold the way you want it to."
His shoulders loosen. "So it's not just me."
"No," she says, handing it back. "Rewrite it with intent. Be specific about what you're protecting."
"Got it. Thank you."
He leaves smiling, and Elara returns to her screen without a second thought.
The morning unfolds like that—questions asked, answers given, problems smoothed before they can escalate. At one point, a client situation threatens to turn sharp, voices rising just enough to attract attention. Elara steps in quietly, reframing the issue, offering a solution that costs less time and fewer words. By the time the senior partner arrives, the tension has already dissipated.
"Well handled," someone says later, not to her but near enough that she hears it.
She keeps typing.
Lunch passes with her seated at her desk, half-eaten sandwich forgotten while she finishes a document she knows will make tomorrow easier. When she finally looks up, the office has shifted into afternoon mode—conversations lower, movements slower.
Jonah passes her desk on his way to the printer.
"Hey," he says, nodding.
"Hey."
He hesitates, then adds, "That note you sent earlier—thanks. It helped."
She smiles faintly. "I'm glad."
He lingers for a second, as if considering something else, then continues on. The interaction is brief, balanced, and gone before it settles.
By the time the day ends, Elara feels the familiar weight behind her eyes. She shuts down her computer, gathers her things, and leaves with the same quiet efficiency she arrived with.
Outside, the city feels louder than it did this morning. Traffic presses close. Voices overlap. She walks for a few blocks before turning toward the café.
The bell above the door rings when she enters, and warmth wraps around her immediately. Not just heat—recognition.
"Hey, Elara," the barista says without looking up. "The usual?"
"Yes, please."
She takes her seat by the window, setting her bag down carefully. From here, she can see the street without being pulled into it. The table bears the faint scratches of years of use. She traces one with her finger absently as her coffee arrives.
It's exactly right.
She takes the first sip and exhales slowly. This is the part of the day that belongs only to her. No one needs anything. No one expects her to anticipate the next problem.
The door opens.
She barely notices at first. Just a shift in air, a movement at the edge of her vision. She looks up out of habit—and then stops.
It's him.
Not the man from the elevator. Not someone she recognizes from work.
This man stands just inside the café, scanning the space as if he's looking for something specific. He isn't rushed. He isn't uncertain. There's a stillness to him that feels deliberate.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, their eyes meet.
Nothing dramatic happens. No smile. No jolt. Just recognition—clean and unforced.
He looks away first.
Elara tells herself to return to her coffee. She does. But the moment stays with her, faint and insistent, like a word on the tip of her tongue.
She has no idea why.