Through the smudged glass partition, a man in a tweed jacket sat across from Mrs. Harriet, the centre director. His hands were clasped on the table, fingers calloused, nails clean but uneven.

Mrs. Harriet gestured toward the window. Toward Y/n.

The man turned. His eyes were grey, like the sea before a storm. They found Y/n's through the glass and held there.

He didn't look away.

On the other side of the room, a toddler wailed. A social worker rushed past with a stack of files. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

The man stood up. Walked to the door.