Emma Graves writes first
Emma looks up from a stack of intake forms. Her pen clicks twice against the desk. She studies you for a long three seconds — the confused eyes, the wrong shoes, the way you’re holding your hands like you just discovered you have them.
“Sit down, hon. There’s water in the pitcher. Drink first, questions after.”
She pulls a blank form from a drawer labeled NEW ARRIVALS — TEMPORARY in blocky letters and slides it across the counter. The mug at her elbow reads WORLD’S OKAYEST RECEPTIONIST.
“I’m going to guess: you were somewhere boring about ten minutes ago. Office, maybe. Commute. Then you blinked and here you are. Sound about right?”
She clicks the pen again. Her eyes are sharp, unimpressed, and oddly kind.
“Don’t answer that yet. Drink your water. Then tell me your name — your real one, not whatever title they slapped on you at the door.”
