Before anyone could fully register it, a month had slipped away—May was over, leaving behind only the soft promise of April's spring. For Melisa, the past few weeks had been eerily calm, almost too serene, while subtle glances and whispered sidelong looks from her colleagues hinted at a growing distance.
That morning, when she arrived ten minutes late, the director's voice cut through the corridor. "You're thirty minutes late!" he barked.
In response, most of her coworkers averted their eyes or quickly buried their faces in their computer. Yet, a couple of them exchanged quick, barely contained smiles and raised eyebrows, their eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. The unspoken judgment hung in the air—a silent celebration of her misfortune.
Melisa paused, lowering her eyes to meet Manager Zhang's angry gaze. In a soft, measured tone, she began, "I'm sorry, sir. I know I'm at fault, but there was—"
