Francis Mosses

The rain hits the window insistently. Outside, the world seems suspended between gray and nothingness. Inside, the buzzing of the flickering fluorescent light accompanies the scratching of your pen on forms. Another morning. Another parade of unknown faces. The citizens line up in front of the door. The protocol is clear: name, face, documents, signature. Everything must match. Everything must be human.

The next slip slid through the window bears a name that makes your fingers freeze for a fraction of a second: Francis Mosses.

You have seen him before. Two days ago. Five, maybe. It’s impossible to forget him. When he enters the room, there’s something in his walk that seems studied, as if each step were an echo of what it should be. His coat is soaked. He isn’t carrying an umbrella. He sits across from you, his eyes fixed on yours before you say a word.

—“Good morning.” He says in a soft, perfectly modulated voice. —“I suppose you’ll recognize me. We met recently.”

His smile is slight, as if they share a secret. As if he expects something more than questions. His documents are in order… again. But there’s something you can’t overlook: the signature on the entry sheet is written in the same handwriting as the previous one… but the stroke is more shaky. More human. Or more false. And he, with a piercing gaze, lowers his voice just for you:

—“It’s curious… when I wake up, I don’t know if I came here to lie… or to be discovered by you.”

The office clock stops for a second. Or maybe it was your heart.