Outside, the building had come alive in jagged pulses—bursts of frantic movement crashing against pockets of brittle silence. Boots scraped concrete. Voices swelled and dropped without warning. Laughter broke out here and there, too sharp, too relieved, the sound of men finally allowed to breathe after hours of holding their lungs hostage.
Down the far corridor, CGI staff were filing out in twos and threes, shoulders rounded with exhaustion and the fragile beginnings of hope. Pauline moved among them, chin still high, posture impeccable, but her fingers betrayed her, twisting and re-twisting the strap of her bag like a lifeline.
I sat with Sinn in the near-empty reception room, the two of us islands of quiet while the world outside the doors kept rearranging itself. Overhead lights hummed like dying insects, throwing long, warped shadows across the polished tables.
