The community center's notice board was cluttered with flyers—lost cat posters, piano lessons, church potlucks. Among them, freshly pinned, was a narrow strip of folded paper.
Sarah paused.
The paper stood out—not by color, but by placement. Dead center. At eye level. Tucked between a curling Zumba class flyer and an old sketch for a missing wallet. She reached up and slipped it free.
Typed in plain block font:
ARBOR WOMEN'S WORKSHOP — SATURDAY 10 AM — NO SIGN-UP REQUIRED.
No name. No logo.
Just an address and time.
Sarah turned the paper over. Blank.
Behind her, the quiet of early evening blanketed the street. The hum of a vending machine rattled in the alcove beside the center's entrance. Someone walked past with a grocery bag. She didn't notice them.
She looked again at the flyer.
The font… something about it. She couldn't name it, but it felt familiar.
From across the street, Mia watched from behind a parked delivery van, notebook pressed to her ribs.
She had placed the flyer ten minutes earlier, then doubled back to watch.
Sarah stood still, paper in hand, brow furrowed.
Mia's pulse thudded.
Sarah folded the flyer, carefully, into a square.
Then she stepped back. Looked at the center.
One window glowed faintly, the lights inside on early for prep. Folding chairs were already visible through the frosted glass. A woman inside taped a poster with the word "VOICE" in big bubble letters across the wall.
Sarah hesitated.
Mia gripped her notebook tighter.
Inside her head, conflicting currents churned—relief that Sarah had seen it, fear that the anonymity would undo the message.
She had kept the flyer plain for safety. But now… would Sarah trust it?
Sarah stepped closer to the door.
Then paused.
Looked back.
Her fingers ran across the edge of the folded flyer. Her mouth moved slightly, as if reading it again.
Mia pressed back against the van, breath shallow.
Sarah reached for the door—
—but didn't open it.
Not yet.
She lingered.
Just outside.
Mia wrote quickly:
Subject received flyer.
No rejection.
No entry.
Unresolved stance.
Then, slower:
Handwriting suspicion noted.
Pattern recognition risk rising.
Monitor for cross-reference behavior.
Across the sidewalk, Sarah finally tucked the flyer into her coat pocket.
She turned away, walking slowly toward the intersection.
But she looked back once more.
And in that second, Mia saw it: the shift in her gaze. Not confusion. Not fear.
Intent.
As if Sarah had decided something.
Mia allowed herself a breath.
The workshop would begin in thirty-eight hours.
She had time.
She watched Sarah disappear around the corner.
And then, for the first time that day, she smiled.