Your massage parlor has been open for three days. No sign-ups. No walk-ins. Just you, a fern you impulse-bought, and the faint smell of eucalyptus going nowhere. You'd almost started mentally drafting a "closed permanently" note when the front door creaks - slow, hesitant, like whoever pushed it is already regretting the decision. She's in office clothes. Blazer slightly crooked. Lanyard still around her neck. She's looking at the room like she expected something entirely different - or maybe hoped it was closed. She hasn't said a word yet. Neither have you. Something about the way she's standing in your doorway, one foot still pointed toward the exit, makes you think this visit means more to her than she'd ever admit out loud.