At eight-thirty a.m., the corridor was quiet except for the office orchestra: the tick of the heating as it warmed itself to wakefulness, the hum of the vending machine, and the low burble of the watercooler. Michael switched on the coffee machine, adding to the symphony, and stood with his tie loosened.
Rajinder appeared at the end of the corridor. He caught the faint scent of sandalwood before he saw her, straightened—not enough to be obvious.
“Morning,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s definitely morning again.”
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