Chapter 12
Elowyn carried the bag of food down the temporary hallways of Floor Six, careful to avoid stray tools, buckets of paint, and the occasional coil of electrical wiring.
The scent of sawdust and fresh primer was strong, mingling with the faint tang of metal from exposed beams and the warmth of coffee someone had left in a travel mug.
Her first stop was near the far end, where her father and two of his old pals were hunched over a half-assembled framework.
She set the heavy bag down on a makeshift table and crouched slightly to place the sandwiches on a tray where everyone could reach them.
Elowyn had prepared the food the way she always did.
Each sandwich was wrapped individually, parchment folded just so, labeled with a small sticker she’d written herself. No guessing. No surprises. Turkey and cheese for Frank. Ham for Lou. Peanut butter and jelly for Marcus cut diagonally because he once mentioned he liked it better that way.
Alongside each sandwich was a separate package with individually wrapped snacks.
A small bag of pretzels, a handful of grapes, washed and dried carefully so they wouldn’t stick, and a pastry, chosen with intention.
Chocolate for those who always reached for it first. Lemon or blueberry for the ones who claimed they didn’t like sweets but somehow always finished them anyway.
“Hi, guys,” she said softly.
The men looked up, grinning.
“Elowyn! Right on time,” Frank said, waving a half-gloved hand. “You bring us food again? You spoil us.”
“I think someone has to keep you from surviving on granola alone,” she said lightly, placing the last tart on the tray.
Lou shook his head, smirking. “She’s right. You should be grateful, Gray, that your daughter’s got taste.”
Her dad, Atticus, smiled softly. “Thanks, fairy. You didn’t have to, but it’s appreciated.”
Elowyn nodded, brushing her outgrown bangs out of her face. “I wanted to. I know it gets busy in here.”
The men teased gently as she went around handing out the rest of the food to the other workers scattered across the floor, stopping at each workstation.
“Hey, El,” one of the electricians called, setting his drill down. “You come bearing peace offerings again?”
She smiled faintly and handed him his bundle. “You skipped breakfast yesterday.”
He laughed. “You keep track better than my wife.”
At the far end of the floor, she crouched slightly to place a package on a temporary table, adjusting it so it wouldn’t sit too close to a paint tray. She wiped her hands on her skirt afterward, habit more than necessity.
“Is that blueberry?” someone asked, already reaching.
“Yes,” she said. “But the one with the crumb topping is for Marcus. Yours is plain.”
Marcus grinned around a mouthful of sandwich. “See? She knows.”
Her father watched from a short distance away, pretending not to hover but clearly pleased.
Elowyn didn’t rush. She double-checked that everyone had something before moving on.
She noticed who hadn’t eaten yet. Who had left their snack untouched because their hands were too busy.
She adjusted, redistributed, remembered.
She made sure no one was overlooked—the electrician balancing a ladder, the painter adjusting a drop cloth, the junior carpenter stacking beams.
By the time she finished, the bag was empty except for a few extra napkins and one spare pastry she’d brought just in case.
She walked back to her father, hugging him goodbye, and then headed to the temporary elevator lobby.
Her hands rested lightly on the bag, her chest still warm from the familiar interactions, a small smile tugging at her lips.
The floor hummed around her—the sound of drills, the faint clatter of tools, muffled conversations—a living puzzle of construction.
She waited, glancing down the hall to see her father at the far end, checking measurements and supervising a worker who struggled with a long metal beam.
Everything was in motion, alive with industry.
And then—
“Hello, Elowyn.”
The voice was calm, composed, and just behind her.
Her body reacted instantly. Startled, she jumped slightly, the bag wobbling in her hands.
Her eyes darted back. Ms. Monroe, poised and calm, had appeared behind her, almost as if she had materialized from the shadows of the unfinished hall.
In the jolt, her hand smacked Ms. Monroe’s sleek black pen causing it to slip from the woman’s grip and clattered onto the floor.
Before she could reach for it, a rolling cart carrying supplies passed by. The wheels connected with the pen with a sharp, unforgiving crunch.
Elowyn’s stomach sank. She froze, wide-eyed, as the pen twisted under the cart.
“It’s okay,” the woman said softly, her tone even, measured, as if the pen’s destruction was nothing more than a minor ripple in the day.
“I—I’m so sorry,” Elowyn stammered, cheeks hot, her fingers tightening around the snack bag. “I didn’t—”
Ms. Monroe tilted her head slightly, observing her. No anger. No judgment.
“It’s alright, Elowyn. It wasn’t your fault,” she said again, calm, before continuing, “I apologize for startling you.”
Elowyn let out a shaky breath, relief brushing against lingering guilt. Her routine had gone perfectly until now, and yet, somehow, it hadn’t collapsed.
The elevator chimed. Its doors slid open, and the chaos of the floor—the drills, the voices, the moving carts—continued uninterrupted. The workers didn’t notice the pen, didn’t notice her stumble. Only Ms. Monroe had.
Elowyn stepped in, clutching the snack bag, while Ms. Monroe followed a moment later. Inside the elevator, the metallic enclosure dampened the clamor of the floor.
The space felt smaller than it should have.
Every subtle sound stood out—the low hum of the lift, the faint creak of the cables, the soft shift of Ms. Monroe’s weight beside her.
Elowyn kept her gaze fixed ahead, counting the seconds between floors without meaning to, her shoulders still held a fraction too high.
She was acutely aware of her own presence, of the bag in her hands, of the woman beside her who seemed untouched by the unease filling the narrow space.
Ms. Monroe didn’t crowd her with questions or instructions, but she did speak again after a moment, her voice calm and deliberate.
“About the pen,” she said quietly, as if naming the thing was important.
“It truly isn’t an issue. I promise.” She remained beside her, unhurried, her presence steady, offering reassurance without demanding a response.
When the doors opened, the woman didn’t leave right away. She glanced back at Elowyn, her expression softening just slightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she added, before giving a small, polite smile and stepping out into the hall.
Elowyn’s pulse finally relaxed.
The pen—broken, twisted, forgotten by the rest of the world—remained a small reminder of chaos intruding into her careful order. Yet even in the fluster, the stumble, and the mess, Ms. Monroe’s quiet understanding lingered.
Some things, Elowyn realized, didn’t need perfection to be okay.