There was no title page. There was no CV. There was just a single sheet of standard printer paper, folded haphazardly.

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As the sun went down, casting long shadows across the mailroom floor, Elias reached the bottom of the pile.

The hours bled together. The coffee grew cold. The stack on his left shrank; the stack on his right grew, a tower of rejected dreams.

The fluorescent hum of the overhead lights was the only sound in the university department’s mailroom, a sound Elias usually associated with the dull ache of a Monday morning. But today, the silence felt different. It was heavy, pregnant with the particular kind of dread that only arrives in manila envelopes.

Erasmus responded in 0.4 seconds:

Then, at the bottom of the report, he added a footnote.

“Aris,” she said, her voice brittle. “Did you… read these?”