The File in My Hand
I stalked the gleaming elevator doors as they opened, the doctor emerging with a sealed manila folder stamped “Kessler.”
His coat brushed the fluorescent light, casting a thin halo around the name I’d tried to forget.
“Excuse me,” I called, voice steady despite the knot in my throat.
He glanced at me, eyes flickering between annoyance and curiosity, then slipped the folder into my outstretched fingers.
“You’re not supposed to be in the staff wing,” he muttered, the words swallowed by the hum of nearby monitors.
The hallway smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee; my pulse thudded against my temples as I turned left, the folder heavy like a promise.
Through a half‑closed door I heard muffled chatter and the soft clink of a coffee machine. I slipped inside the staff lounge, the door sighing shut behind me.
