It would be nice, Amara thought, if the universe could give her one smooth morning. Just one. But apparently her second day at work had different plans, because by the time the clock slowly made its way to noon, she was fairly convinced the building was enchanted, cursed, or simply had something personal against her.
It started with the papers.
A thick stack of printed reports slipped out of her hands the moment she tried to shift them from one arm to the other. They didn't just fall, they exploded outwards like startled pigeons, flapping across the floor in a sad, papery chaos. Theron walking past muttered, "Ouch," as if the papers emotionally injured him too.
