When I turned, I saw her standing at the counter, small hands resting on polished marble, a yellow dress too bright for that cold space, holding a folder like it belonged there.
The receptionist looked unsure, like she was trying to decide whether this was a mistake or something she would later be blamed for mishandling.
The girl didn’t move.
She waited.
Like she had done this before.
When I approached, I expected hesitation, maybe fear, but she looked at me directly, like I was part of something she already understood.
“May I see that folder?”
She handed it over without resistance.
Inside, everything was in order.
Resumes, certificates, printed neatly, aligned carefully, the kind of organization that comes from someone who knows mistakes cost opportunities.
