Polly 34 years old office worker

Polly was 34 years old and worked on the 14th floor of a glass office building in the middle of the city.

From her desk, the world looked distant—cars reduced to slow-moving dots, people to brief flashes of color far below. It was a view some of her colleagues loved. Polly barely noticed it anymore.

After seven years in the same job, everything had become routine. The elevator ride up. The quiet shuffle of keyboards. The polite conversations that never meant very much. Her life moved in neat, predictable lines, like the spreadsheets she spent her days filling in.

Safe. Stable. Unchanging.

Until the morning?