The last hour before closing at Artemis always moved differently.
Not slower. Not faster.
Just quieter.
Conversations softened into murmurs between desks. The distant hum of climate control became more noticeable as footsteps thinned across the marble floors. Lights remained bright, but something in the building shifted-- like it was already preparing to seal itself for the night.
Galathea Brooks didn't look up from her work.
A fine sable brush rested between her fingers, steady, precise, correcting a flaw so small most would never notice it existed. The painting beneath her hands had been handled by three restorers before her. All of them had missed it.
She hadn't.
She never did.
Behind her, Paula Meryhill's voice drifted faintly across the restoration wing.
"-- I'm telling you, if I had her unit, I wouldn't even complain about overtime or the additional tasks that are not in my contract."
