Miralle was already tired when the day began.
She woke before the alarm because the room grew noisy at dawn. Someone upstairs dragged a chair. A child cried in the corridor. The water tap outside her door coughed and stopped working halfway through filling the bucket.
She sat up slowly, feet touching the cold floor, and waited for her body to catch up with her mind.
There was no mirror in the room. She brushed her hair by touch, tied it back, and dressed without thinking much about it. The same black trousers. The same pale shirt that had faded unevenly over time.
She locked the door carefully. The lock jammed, as always, and she had to turn the key twice before it clicked.
Outside, the street smelled of damp concrete and yesterday's food. She walked fast, not because she was late, but because standing still made people notice you.
At the bus stop, she counted money. She always did. Not because the amount changed, but because it reminded her where the limits were.
The bus arrived crowded. She stood, holding the rail, pressed between strangers who smelled of perfume and impatience. No one looked at her long enough to remember her face.
That suited her.
The office building rose ahead like something that had nothing to do with her life. Glass, steel, security guards who nodded at her because they had learned she belonged there — but only just.
Inside, the air-conditioning was too strong. She went straight to her desk and powered on the computer.
Nothing unusual.
Emails. Pending files. A note from her supervisor reminding her to finish photocopies before lunch.
She reached for her notebook — and stopped.
An envelope lay on her desk.
Black. Plain. No logo.
She didn't touch it immediately.
Someone had taken the time to place it there. That meant it wasn't a mistake.
Miralle sat down, logged into her system, and worked for several minutes with the envelope in her peripheral vision. She finished two emails before finally picking it up.
It was heavier than expected.
Inside was a single page.
You have been selected.
Report to the 28th floor at 11:30 AM.
Do not inform anyone.
No name. No department.
She read it twice. Then folded it neatly and slipped it into her bag.
The rest of the morning didn't slow down. If anything, it moved too fast. She made copies, carried files, answered calls that weren't meant for her. When she checked the time again, it was already 11:18.
She stood at 11:25.
The elevator ride was quiet. A man in a suit stepped out on the 22nd floor. After that, she was alone.
The 28th floor felt different in ways she couldn't name. The carpet was thicker. The walls were bare. There were no cubicles, no printers humming in the background.
Just space.
A man stood near the window.
He didn't turn when she entered.
"You're early," he said.
Miralle stopped walking.
"I was told 11:30," she said carefully.
"It's 11:29," he replied.
He turned then.
She noticed small details before the obvious ones. The way his sleeves were rolled precisely to the same point on both arms. The watch — not flashy, but expensive. The absence of anything unnecessary.
His face was calm. Not kind. Not cruel.
Just controlled.
"Sit," Adrian said.
She sat.
A folder lay on the table. He didn't slide it toward her. He simply opened it.
"You live on East Calder Street," he said. "Second floor. One room. Rent overdue once this year."
Her hands tightened on her lap.
"You work here during the day. Café at night. You don't call in sick."
He looked up.
"Why?"
Miralle didn't answer immediately. "Because I can't," she said finally.
Adrian nodded, as if that confirmed something.
"You don't have family support," he continued. "No savings. No legal trouble. No record worth mentioning."
He closed the folder.
"I need someone like you."
She frowned. "For what?"
"For something temporary," Adrian said. "And very specific."
He stood and walked toward the window again.
"You will move into a residence I provide," he said. "You will appear with me when necessary. You will not ask questions you don't need answered."
"That doesn't sound like work," Miralle said.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
She waited. He didn't rush to fill the silence.
Finally, she said, "Why me?"
He turned slightly. "Because you won't be missed."
The words landed without drama.
Miralle stood.
"I think you've made a mistake," she said.
Adrian didn't stop her.
She reached the door before he spoke again.
"Your lease ends in three weeks," he said. "Your café is being sold. The new owner plans to replace staff."
She stopped.
"You checked," she said quietly.
"Yes."
She turned back.
"What happens if I say no?"
Adrian considered her for a moment. "Nothing," he said. "You continue exactly as you are."
The way he said it made that sound worse than a threat.
Miralle returned to the chair and sat.
"What do you want me to pretend to be?" she asked.
Adrian looked at her fully now.
"My partner," he said.
She didn't react right away. The word felt unreal.
"And afterward?" she asked.
"There is no afterward yet," Adrian replied. "Only usefulness."
Miralle leaned back. The chair creaked slightly.
She thought of her room. The lock that jammed. The café manager who paid late. The envelope that had appeared on her desk without warning.
"Tonight," Adrian added, "you'll move in."
She laughed once. It surprised both of them.
"I don't even know you," she said.
"That," he replied calmly, "is the safest part of this."
Miralle looked at the folder again. Then at him.
"All right," she said.
Adrian nodded, as if he had already known the answer.
"Good," he said. "Then don't be late again."