Chapter 2: The Unexpected Visitor
The scent of her father’s agency—polished wood, stale toner, and the faint, ever-present aroma of over-roasted coffee beans—usually felt like a second skin to Dasha. Today, it was an assault. Every click of a keyboard down the hall, every ring of a phone, grated against the raw edge of a sleepless night. The ghost of a touch on her wrist had proven louder than any alarm clock.
She pushed through the heavy glass doors into the lobby, her messenger bag slung over one shoulder, feeling rumpled and transparent. She’d come to help Simon organize years of analog client archives, a task she’d promised him during the dinner’s easy laughter. It felt like a century ago.
“Rough night?”
The voice, warm and familiar, came from the sleek leather couch in the waiting area. Matt.
He was already standing, holding two cardboard coffee cups. He looked unfairly rested, dressed in dark jeans and a simple grey t-shirt beneath an open jacket. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows cut across him, highlighting the casual elegance that seemed as innate as breathing.
Dasha stopped, her brain sluggishly processing his presence. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting with a producer on the ninth floor,” he said, nodding toward the elevators. His blue eyes tracked over her face, missing nothing. “Saw your name in the building directory. Thought you could use this.” He extended one of the cups. “Oat milk latte, extra shot. Since you were thinking so hard about ghosts last night.”
He remembered. Of course he remembered. She took the cup, their fingers brushing. The heat seeped through the cardboard into her skin. “You’re a savior. I think I got three hours of sleep.”
“Because of the ghosts?” he asked, his tone light, but his gaze was fixed on her.
“Something like that,” she murmured, taking a sip. It was perfect.
“Matt. They’re ready for you upstairs.” Simon’s voice came from behind her, cool and smooth as the marble floor. He stood in the open doorway of his office, a file in hand. His eyes moved from Matt to Dasha, holding the coffee, then back to Matt. His expression was that of a seasoned cards player looking at a hand he’d predicted.
“Right. Duty calls,” Matt said, but he didn’t move immediately. He looked at Dasha again, a faint crease between his brows. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Just tired. Go, don’t be late on my account.”
He held her look for a beat longer than necessary, then offered Simon a quick, professional smile. “Simon. We’ll talk next week.”
“Looking forward to it,” her father said.
They watched him walk to the elevators, press the button, step inside. Just before the doors slid shut, he looked back, catching Dasha’s eye. He lifted his own coffee cup in a tiny, private salute. Then he was gone, absorbed into the machinery of the building.
The lobby felt suddenly vacant, the quiet humming of the fluorescent lights rising to fill the space.
“Productive meeting?” Dasha asked, turning to her father.
“He was in the lobby for twenty-five minutes,” Simon said, turning back into his office. He didn’t wait for her to follow, but she did. “The producer’s office called down twice. He said he was ‘finishing an important call.’” Simon settled behind his massive desk, the one that had always made Dasha feel small. He picked up a pen, tapping it lightly on the blotter. “Strange. I didn’t see a phone to his ear.”
Dasha felt a flush creeping up her neck. She focused on peeling the sleeve off her coffee cup. “Maybe it was Bluetooth.”
“Maybe.” The word hung in the air. He opened a file, a clear dismissal of the topic. “The archives are in the back conference room. Boxes one through fifty. I need a preliminary sort by client last name and decade. The scanner is set up.”
It was monotonous, methodical work. Exactly what she needed. The back conference room was flooded with harsh noon light, illuminating dust motes dancing above cardboard bankers’ boxes. Dasha lost herself in the smell of old paper and ink, in the ritual of sorting, of creating order from chaos. Here was a contract from 1998, there a set of headshots for an actress whose name she barely recognized. The physical past, easily categorized.
She was deep into Box 12, her fingers smudged with dust, when a shadow fell across the documents.
“Making progress?”
Matt leaned against the doorframe, his jacket now slung over his shoulder. The meeting-room light glinted off his watch.
“Jesus,” she breathed, a hand flying to her chest. “You move quietly.”
“Actor training. How to make an entrance without seeming to.” He walked in, surveying the organized chaos. “Your dad said you were back here. My meeting ended. Thought I’d say a proper goodbye.”
“You already did. With the coffee salute. Very dramatic.”
He grinned, that easy, crinkling grin. “It felt lacking.” He picked up a faded headshot from the ‘reject’ pile. “Who’s this?”
“No idea. Probably someone who played a corpse on a procedural once.”
He laughed, a real, unguarded sound that echoed in the empty room. He put the photo down and came around the table, closer to where she stood. The air shifted, grew still. The hum of the scanner in the corner seemed to amplify.
“Berlin,” he said, his voice lower now. “When do you hear?”
“In two weeks.”
“You’ll get it.”
“You sound like my father.”
“We’re both smart men.” He was watching her hands, still resting on the files. “It’s a big move. Exciting.”
“Terrifying,” she admitted, the word leaving her before she could cage it.
“Why?” He took a half-step closer. The scent of him—clean cotton and that faint, dry citrus—cut through the dust.
“It’s… giving voice to ghosts. It’s a lot. What if I choose wrong? What if I mishear them?” She was talking about the art, the history. But the question felt bigger, wider.
He was silent for a moment. The sunlight caught the flecks of grey in the stubble along his jaw. “You listen better than anyone I know, Dasha.” His gaze lifted from her hands to her eyes. “You hear the things people don’t say.”
Her breath hitched. The memory of his foot against hers, under the table, was a live wire in the space between them.
Down the hall, a phone rang sharply, followed by the brisk click of heels on hardwood. The spell, if that’s what it was, fractured.
Matt straightened up, cleared his throat. “I should let you work.” He backed toward the door, his movements less fluid than before. “Good luck with the… sorting.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said again, lamely.
He paused at the threshold. “Let me know? When you hear. About anything.” Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Dasha stood motionless, the dust settling slowly around her. She looked down at her hands, smudged with the residue of other people’s histories. On her wrist, where he’d touched her the night before, her skin felt inexplicably warm.
An hour later, she carried a stack of sorted files into Simon’s office. He was on the phone, but he waved her in. She placed the files on the corner of his desk and turned to leave.
“Dasha.”
She stopped. He had cupped his hand over the phone’s receiver.
“He canceled a lunch with the director to wait for you in the lobby,” Simon said, his voice neutral, factual. “Just so you know.”
Then he returned to his call, leaving her frozen in the doorway, the sterile energy of the office suddenly alive with a thousand unspoken words. The untouched coffee cup from that morning, still sitting on the edge of the boardroom table she’d just passed, seemed now less like abandoned clutter and more like a beacon, marking a spot where someone had chosen to wait.