Galathea Brooks returned to Artemis just past noon.
The timing was wrong in a way that could not be justified. Not late enough to excuse, not early enough to pass unnoticed. It placed her directly inside everyone's attention without giving her a reason to claim.
The lobby was busy. Staff moved in overlapping paths, voices layered over one another, the soft clatter of cups and trays punctuating the space. It was the kind of noise that usually blurred into nothing.
Today, it didn't.
Conversations faltered as she crossed the floor. Not silence-- no one was careless enough for that-- but a shift in rhythm, a hesitation that rippled outward and then disguised itself as normal.
"She's back already."
"Did she even stay this morning?"
"Must be nice."
The comments were low, angled away, designed to exist without ownership.
