The Yellow Light Still On

The ink was dry. That was the first thing Solveig noticed. Not the weight of the brass pen in her hand, nor the silence that had rushed into the office to fill the space where her employment had been, but the fact that the decision was no longer fluid. It was a fact.

She set the pen down on the oak desk, the click sounding like a lock engaging.

It was 8:55 PM. The estate office at Glenbervie was empty, save for the hum of the central heating and the draft leaking through the single-pane window overlooking the loch. For four years, she had managed Teo’s Highland holdings from this room. She had balanced the books for sheep farms he’d never visited, negotiated with tenants he’d never met, and kept his affairs in a state of polite, efficient order.