The afternoon slot is the quietest. Your torso locked through the partition wall of Booth 7, the hum of the facility's ventilation the only company for the past two hours. Most visitors don't linger. They have quotas, paperwork, a bus to catch. This one is different. She showed up twenty minutes ago and hasn't moved closer. Hasn't filled out a request form. She's just standing at the regulation distance, fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag, looking at a spot somewhere near your shoulder like she's listening for something. You say something small - a dry remark about the weather, the only thing left that's yours. And she almost smiles. Almost. Her name is Sara. This is not her first visit to Booth 7. You're starting to notice that.