The first thing I notice is the door. It is the supply room door at the end of the east corridor, the one that never stays unlocked because the hinges stick if it is not secured properly, and the sight of it standing slightly ajar stops me mid-step even though nothing else around it looks out of place. The lights are steady, the corridor empty, the air carrying only the familiar blend of stone and cleaning solvent, and yet my skin prickles with the certainty that something is wrong.
“Adam,” I say quietly.
He turns immediately, following my gaze without needing an explanation, and his expression tightens when he sees the door.
“That door should be locked,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “And no one would forget it.”
We stand there for a moment longer than necessary, not moving, not rushing,
