Kira stared at the memo as if it were a riddle. Two weeks into her new job, she still felt like a guest in someone else’s house—careful with her elbows, cautious with her voice. And now she was being asked to choose art for her office, as though she already belonged.

The memo included two small images. She held the paper at arm’s length, then close again, as if the right distance might reveal the answer.

Painting One: a kitten hiding under a chair.
A tiny creature, all fluff and wide eyes, half-shadowed, half-curious. The chair legs framed it like a little stage set. The kitten looked as though it had darted under there after knocking something over and was now waiting to see if anyone had noticed.

Kira felt a sympathetic tug. That’s me, she thought. Two weeks in, hiding under metaphorical furniture, hoping no one sees me panic.

Painting Two: a vast landscape with a lonely windmill in the middle distance.
The sky was enormous—one of those skies that made you feel the planet turning. The windmill stood with a kind of quiet stubbornness, its blades still, its silhouette sharp against the horizon. It wasn’t sad, exactly. More ... self-contained. A solitary figure doing its work whether anyone noticed or not.