When he bends for the last bag, I see the hands—thick, battered, knuckles like old stone, nails cut to the quick.
Not baker's hands.
The white dust of the flour clings in strange patterns, interrupted by the shadowed line of an old burn scar across the back of the left.
When he straightens, I see the tattoo peeking from beneath the cuff—five-pointed star, red, the ink half-bleached by sunlight and age.
I do not react.
Instead, I shift the clipboard to my left hand, offer the invoice with the right, and look him dead in the face.
He takes the paper, holds it for a second longer than needed, then slides the carbon copy back toward me, the edge of his thumb brushing my wrist.
I take the paper, sign with the stub of a pencil, and pocket the receipt.
When he leaves, Lena is already at the door.
She blocks the path, just long enough for the man to know he's made an impression, then lets him by.
I watch his back as he disappearsdown the corridor, the vendor logo on his jacket flexing with every stride, the outline of the star burned into my memory.
I linger in the cold storage, pulse thrumming under my jaw, and replay the scene until I've extracted every detail.
New man.
New tattoo.
No words exchanged, but a message delivered all the same.
The old paranoia kicks in, a familiar cocktail of adrenaline and calculation.
Was he sent for me?
For the house?
For the bundle of cells currently rewriting my genome from the inside out?
Back in my room, I drop the invoice on the desk and sit at the edge of the bed, hands curled into fists.
I count to ten, then twenty, then lose the thread.
The nausea is back, the world tilting just enough to make the light vibrate in my peripheral.
I focus on the routine—sit, breathe, catalogue the sensation, do not let it show.
When the feeling passes, I get up and go to the bathroom.
The mirror is still streaked from the last cleaning, but I can see enough to know the story hasn't changed.
I look tired, but not suspiciously so.
The bump is imaginary, visible only to me in the tightness of my waistband and the way the blouse pulls at the buttons.
I touch my stomach again, then pull the shirt up, just to be sure.
Flat.
Almost.
