The building was a stained concrete box standing in a cheap, low-rent area. It was wedged between an overflowing skip and a long abandoned discount supermarket whose windows were filmed with grime. Across the road while weeds pushed through the broken tarmac, cash-converter shops and tiny takeaways crowded beneath faded signs. By this time the streets had emptied except for the buzz of failing fluorescent lights and the occasional siren sounding somewhere beyond this neglected row. The whole entrance was pervaded by the smell of damp and the disarray common to all the forgotten places of the world. I stepped inside and in one breath, I felt the weight of the years pressing down with an almost palpable gravity. Scattered across the floor were flattened cigarettes and letters for tenants who had long since disappeared. Dust filmed the blinds, dead plants slumped in cracked ceramic pots, and a stained ceiling tile sagged in a slow surrender. Pushing deeper into the heavy gloom, I passed a succession of doors, guessing nothing lay beyond them but darkness and disrepair — hollow shells of filth and neglect connected through their shared isolation. A single office light glowed at the end of the hall, casting the sharp silhouette of a figure against frosted glass. I hesitated letting the dead air settle around me before raising a fist to knock three times against the heavy door. For a moment that seemed to stretch out into an awkward infinity, nothing happened. I shifted the weight of the briefcase in my grip, feeling the friction of worn leather handle against my palm. I cleared my throat and spoke my voice cracking slightly.

“Miss Limburg, it’s Steven, we spoke on the phone.”

I held my breath as I felt the silence rushing back in to fill the void, punctuated only by the rhythmic plop of a dozen separate leaks. Then, a brief scuffle of movement came from behind the door.

“I hear you, Mr. Johnson. I’m here. Come on in.”

At a worn desk sat Rosa Limburg in an elegant but calculating posture. I pulled the heavy object from my briefcase and set it on the table before her. She leaned over and picked it up, balancing the weight in her palm before bringing it close to her face, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Turning it over in her hands, her movements slow, deliberate, and practiced. Many had considered her analytical eye almost supernatural — comparable to the accuracy of a modern spectrograph and perhaps even its cold utility. She paused, closed her eyes, and then announced her final decision ...