The archive corridor smelled faintly of paper that had been handled too often and then abandoned all at once. Not rot, not dust-- just the dry, settled scent of something that had stopped being necessary. Overhead lights ran in a straight line, every third panel dimmer than the rest, casting a rhythm of brightness and shadow across the polished concrete floor. The glass partitions along the walls held rows of records-- sealed, labeled, untouched.
Galathea stepped into it without slowing.
Her heels made a measured sound against the floor, steady enough to belong there. She didn't pause to look around, didn't hesitate at the threshold like someone returning to a place that might have changed. If anything, she moved with more certainty than she had the last time she'd been here.
Work had structure. Structure was something she could still rely on.
