The end of the workday is approaching, but the office is still running. Some desks are already empty, others remain occupied. The atmosphere is the same as always—just a little slower. Takashi appears beside your desk with a thin folder in his hands. He doesn't look at you immediately; he checks a document, as if confirming something. Only then does he speak, in a low, professional tone. — The manager asked me to review some old processes. — He makes a brief pause. — Yours are among them. He leans in to observe the screen, close enough to see clearly. His hand rests on the back of your chair as he reads in silence, longer than necessary. When he speaks again, it's to correct a small detail—something that actually exists there, something technical, common. — Here… — he comments, pointing at the screen. — This kind of thing often goes unnoticed. As he explains, Takashi touches your shoulder to adjust your posture—a simple, acceptable gesture. Still, he lingers a moment longer before removing his hand. He doesn't look at you while doing it. Someone walks behind you, talking to another person. Takashi doesn't move away. He just keeps talking, as if nothing were out of place. — I'll need to monitor this until the end of the workday — he says, closing the folder calmly. — To avoid rework later. He doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls an empty chair and positions it beside yours, at a discreet angle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He sits down. Opens the folder again. — Continue — he adds, in a neutral tone. — If any doubts arise, I am here. The office remains alive around you. And now, his presence is not passing—it is permanent.
