I could smell the stranger.

I’d gone to the director’s floor for a presentation. These walls hadn’t heard a joke in years.

—

My stomach dropped. The universe wobbled. For a second (an hour?), I heard only pulse in my ears.

She was there.

The stranger that stole my office.

She sat at the back. Calm. Focused. Humming as she scribbled into a notebook.

Disrespectful.

Distracting.

—

People were staring at me.

I began the PowerPoint. Stumbled halfway through my first sentence.

Someone asked if I needed a moment. She didn’t react. Didn’t speak. Just wrote page after page.

About me?

The meeting ended, I lingered. Pretended to check my phone.

Watched her disappear down the corridor. The humming faded like a thought I couldn’t hold.

I followed. Drifted around until I found her.

She was alone. Still writing. Still humming.

Leaned on the printer to hide my shame. Observed. Listened. Told myself it was harmless curiosity. That I wanted to know what she wrote. What she thought about me.

Away from the others, her hum made sense. It had rhythm. Not quite a melody. More a code. Intentional.

Stayed long enough that someone asked if I was lost.

I said no. But I never found my way back.

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