Chapter 22. No Response

The following morning, the office gleamed with its trademark clinical precision: cool glass walls, burnished metal fixtures, and a hush that felt as deliberate as a held breath. Outside, the city surged forward in its usual rush—engines roaring down the boulevard, heels clicking across the marble lobby, baristas calling out coffee orders like liturgies of productivity. But behind that sleek façade, in the suite she shared with him, time had thickened, slowed to a crawl—or perhaps refused to move at all.

Alyssa stepped through the revolving doors at exactly her usual hour. Yet nothing about her arrival felt routine. Each movement was measured, deliberate, as if she were passing through a rainstorm of memory she could scarcely bear to acknowledge. She offered the receptionist a curt nod—enough to maintain propriety, not enough to invite conversation—then kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. Not because she wanted to hide, but because she feared what she might see if she looked do