I woke before the sun, as always. 4:52 AM. Eight minutes before my alarm. I switched it off, avoiding the harsh beep that would only confirm what I already knew—time to face another day.
The radiator in the corner wheezed and clanked, spitting lukewarm air into my twelve-by-fourteen apartment. The sound had bothered me the first week. Now it was just background noise, like traffic or sirens.
I folded back the thin blanket, edges aligned precisely with the foot of the bed. No point lingering. The floor creaked under my bare feet as I crossed to the bathroom—three steps, turn right.
Cold water. Always cold first. It cleared the mind.
I stared at my reflection. Dark circles. Sharp eyes. Face betraying nothing. Good.
Back in the main room, I pulled my clothes from the closet—white blouse, black slacks. I'd ironed them last night, hanging them on the bathroom door where steam from my shower would smooth any remaining wrinkles. Efficiency mattered.
The single lamp cast shadows across the room. I'd never bothered with better lighting. What was there to see? Four walls, a bed, a desk, a chair. Everything I owned fit in one suitcase. Ready to leave at a moment's notice. Old habits.
As I buttoned my blouse, my eyes drifted to the dresser. A single silver frame caught what little light existed in the room. I didn't need to look closely—I knew every detail of the photograph. Orphanage group photo. Twenty-seven children arranged in three rows. Twenty-six smiling faces, and mine. Age nine, standing slightly apart, eyes focused somewhere beyond the camera.
Ms. Winters had given me the photo when I aged out. "To remember where you came from," she'd said. As if I could forget.
I straightened the frame a quarter-inch to the left. Perfect alignment.
The radiator gave a particularly violent shudder. I ignored it and reached for my watch. 5:17 AM. Time to start the coffee.
The coffee scalded my tongue—perfect. I drank it black, no sugar. Sweetness was a distraction. I rinsed the mug, placed it upside down on the rack, and grabbed my coat.
Outside, the air bit through my thin jacket. Mid-October chill. I pulled it tighter and began walking.
The city looked different at 5:43 AM. Honest, somehow. No pretense. No crowds to navigate. Just empty sidewalks and streetlights casting pools of yellow on wet pavement. A garbage truck rumbled two blocks away. The occasional car passed, headlights cutting through lingering darkness.
I moved at exactly the same pace I always did—not rushed, not dawdling. Precise. The museum was seventeen blocks from my apartment. I'd walk them in twenty-two minutes, accounting for traffic lights.
A man in a business suit hurried past, coffee thermos in one hand, phone pressed to his ear with the other. He spoke too loudly about quarterly reports. I stepped aside without breaking stride.
Outside the bakery on Eighth Street, the owner arranged fresh pastries in the window. He waved when he saw me. I nodded back. We'd never spoken, but he'd seen me pass at the same time for three years now.
My breath clouded in front of my face as I waited for the light to change at the intersection. Across the street, a woman walked her dog. The animal strained at its leash, eager to investigate something in the gutter. The woman yanked it back. I looked away.
The museum appeared ahead, its stone façade gray in the pre-dawn light. Classical columns. Wide steps. Home, in a way my apartment never was.
I climbed the stairs and used my key card at the staff entrance. The security system beeped once—access granted.
Inside, Mr. Reyes pushed his mop across the marble floor of the east wing. He glanced up.
"Morning, Jennifer."
"Morning." I kept walking.
Mr. Liang and his wife stood near the information desk, reviewing documents. They'd been running the museum for thirty years. Married forty-two. They still held hands when they thought no one was looking.
"Good morning, Jennifer," Mrs. Liang called, her voice echoing in the empty hall.
"Good morning, Mrs. Liang. Mr. Liang." I nodded respectfully and continued toward my office.
My office door clicked shut behind me. I hung my coat on the hook—center position, evenly spaced between the wall and door. The familiar smell of old paper and wood polish greeted me as I settled at my desk.
5:59 AM. One minute early.
I opened the bottom drawer and retrieved my tools: microfiber cloths, specialized brushes, cotton gloves, clipboard with inventory sheets. Each had its place, arranged in order of use.
The museum wouldn't open to visitors until 10:00 AM. These early hours belonged to me alone.
I pulled on the white cotton gloves—mandatory for handling artifacts—and began my rounds. First, the East Asian pottery collection. Ming dynasty vases, their blue-and-white patterns still vibrant after six centuries. I dusted each display case methodically, working from top to bottom, left to right. No streaks. No missed corners.
The brass identification plate for the Qing dynasty bowl was tilted two degrees clockwise. I straightened it. Perfect alignment mattered.
"There," I whispered to the empty room.
I moved to the inventory checklist, verifying each piece against the master log. Item 243-B: Ceramic funeral mask, Northern Wei Dynasty. Present. Condition unchanged. I made a neat checkmark and moved to the next.
I'd started here as a teenager. Fifteen years old, part of a work program for "at-risk youth." The other participants quit within weeks. I stayed. The artifacts didn't judge. Didn't ask questions. Didn't need me to smile or make small talk. They just needed precision and care—things I understood.
By seventeen, I knew every exhibit number, every acquisition date. Now I am twenty, I could identify forgeries better than curators with doctoral degrees. Pattern recognition. Attention to detail. My strengths.
I paused at the glass case containing Neolithic stone tools. Something was wrong. The obsidian scraper had been moved—three millimeters from its documented position. I made a note on my clipboard and adjusted it back using the special handling tongs.
In the Egyptian section, I checked the climate control readings. 68°F. 42% humidity. Optimal conditions for preservation. I recorded the numbers in my log and continued my circuit.
The world outside might be chaotic and unpredictable, but in here, among these carefully preserved pieces of history, everything had its place. Everything made sense.
The noon hour approached. I heard the first signs—desk drawers sliding open, rustling paper bags, whispered invitations to join lunch groups. My cue to disappear.
I slipped into the archive room with a stack of acquisition forms that needed filing. The room smelled of acid-free paper and time. Perfect. No one would bother me here.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I methodically arranged the papers by date, then subcategory, then ID number. My movements were deliberate, practiced. I'd perfected the art of looking busy when necessary.
My stomach tightened, but I ignored it. Hunger was merely a biological response, easily overridden. I'd gone without meals for days in the orphanage when necessary. This was nothing.
Besides, I had $43.17 to last until payday. Lunch was an unnecessary expense.
I heard footsteps in the hallway and straightened my posture, focusing intently on the file in my hand. The door creaked open.
Mrs. Liang stood in the doorway, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in its usual elegant bun. She glanced at the empty table beside me, then at my face.
"Jennifer, did you forget your lunch again?"
I kept my eyes on the papers. "I'm fine."
My stomach chose that precise moment to contradict me with a low, embarrassing rumble. I pressed my arm against my midsection as if I could silence it through sheer will.
Mrs. Liang nodded once and disappeared without another word. Good. I returned to my filing, relieved at the brief interaction.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again. Mrs. Liang reappeared, carrying a lacquered wooden box. She set it on the table beside me with a gentle click.
The scent hit me immediately—jasmine rice, something savory with ginger and soy. Steam escaped from beneath the lid. My mouth watered traitorously.
"You can pay me back next time," Mrs. Liang said, her voice light. "I'll look forward to it."
She smiled—the kind that reached her eyes and created fine lines at their corners—then turned and walked away before I could respond.
I stared at the bento box. The wood was smooth, polished by years of handling. Family heirloom, most likely. Something passed down through generations.
My fingers hovered over the lid, uncertain. I didn't need charity. I'd survived on less. Much less.
But the aroma seeped through the cracks, wrapping around me like an invisible embrace. Ginger. Soy. Something sweet underneath. My stomach contracted painfully.
"This is unnecessary," I whispered to the empty room. The words hung in the air, unconvincing even to my own ears.
I glanced at the door. No one watching. My hands trembled slightly as I lifted the lid—a weakness I immediately noted and controlled.
Inside, the food was arranged with precision that even I had to admire. Rice shaped into perfect half-moons. Vegetables cut into identical strips. A small portion of glazed chicken, the sauce glistening under the fluorescent lights.
I picked up the chopsticks tucked into the side compartment. They were worn smooth at the tips from years of use.
The first bite dissolved on my tongue. Warm. Complex flavors. Nothing like the bland institutional food I'd grown up with.
My mind drifted as I chewed slowly, methodically. St. Agnes Home for Children. Metal trays with compartments. Portions that never quite filled you up. The older kids stealing from the younger ones when the staff wasn't looking.
I remembered the day Mrs. Keller, the head administrator, called me into her office. I was fifteen. Rain streamed down the windows behind her desk.
"Jennifer, you understand our situation," she'd said, not meeting my eyes. "State funding has been cut again. We simply can't... well, the younger children must take priority."
I'd nodded, face expressionless. I understood systems, economics. The cold mathematics of worth and resource allocation.
That night, I'd divided my few possessions into "necessary" and "expendable" piles. No one had ever shared their food with me unless forced to by the staff. No one had ever given without expecting something in return.
Yet here I sat, eating from Mrs. Liang's family bento box. Given freely. Without demand.
I set down the chopsticks and closed my eyes. The tight knot in my chest—the one I carried everywhere, always—loosened just slightly.
For three minutes, I allowed myself to simply exist in this moment. To feel the warmth spread through my body. To acknowledge this strange, foreign feeling.
Then I carefully repackaged the remaining food, wiped the chopsticks clean, and closed the lid.
After I finished eating, I gathered the bento box and chopsticks. Everything back in its proper place. The methodical rhythm of organization calmed me as always.
I slipped out of the archives and headed to the small staff kitchen at the end of the hall. No one was there—good. Most were still at lunch or back at their stations.
The sink gleamed under the fluorescent lights. I turned the water to exactly the right temperature—hot enough to sanitize but not so hot it might damage the wood. I washed each compartment of the box with careful precision, making sure no sauce remained in the corners.
My fingers traced the grain of the wood as I dried it. Someone had cared for this box for decades. Generations, perhaps. The thought of being entrusted with it, even briefly, felt strange. Heavy.
I folded the small kitchen towel into perfect thirds and hung it back on its rack. The box sat on the counter, clean and ready to return. I placed the chopsticks alongside it, aligned precisely.
As I walked back to my station, clipboard tucked under my arm, I spotted Mrs. Liang near the Ming vase display. She was explaining something to a new docent, her hands moving gracefully as she spoke. The young man nodded, scribbling notes.
I could have waited. Could have left the box on her desk with a note. That would have been easier. No interaction required.
Instead, I approached, box held carefully in both hands.
Mrs. Liang turned as I neared, as if she'd sensed my presence. Her eyes moved from the box to my face.
"Thank you," I said, extending the bento toward her. My voice sounded strange in my ears. Softer than usual.
She took it, her fingers brushing mine briefly. "You're welcome, Jennifer."
Something inside me shifted—a small crack in a wall I'd built long ago. I felt the corners of my mouth turn upward, just slightly. A genuine expression I hadn't allowed myself in... I couldn't remember how long.
Mrs. Liang's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She'd noticed.
I didn't say more. Didn't need to. She nodded once, understanding in her gaze, and I turned to continue my rounds.
The smile faded as I walked away, but the warmth lingered. Unfamiliar. Not entirely unwelcome.