There was once a hallway that seemed longer every Thursday, although nobody could explain why. The lights above it buzzed with the confidence of old refrigerators, and the carpet carried a pattern so complicated that people often slowed down just to avoid thinking about it directly. At the far end stood a machine that produced coffee of uncertain temperature and emotional intention. Some people trusted it. Others approached it the way one approaches weather reports in April.
Martin liked to stand near the machine at approximately 14:17 each afternoon, not because he enjoyed coffee, but because the machine sounded vaguely like distant traffic in Rotterdam. “Een beetje vreemd,” he would say quietly, staring at the plastic buttons as if they contained maritime law. Nobody asked what he meant anymore. The office had developed a respectful relationship with unexplained Dutch phrases.
The building itself was not important. In fact, it had been redesigned three times in seven years and still looked temporary. Its windows reflected another building across the street, which reflected yet another building, creating a small architectural argument that lasted until sunset. Sometimes a pigeon interrupted the reflections and made the entire financial district appear uncertain for two or three seconds.
Inside Conference Room B, a projector displayed charts no one fully understood. The charts had arrows, gradients, and circles connected by dotted lines, which usually means something expensive is happening. Claire once pointed at one of the circles and asked whether it represented growth or decline. Nobody answered immediately because the presenter had gone to reconnect the HDMI cable. Eventually someone said, “Probably both.”
This became surprisingly influential.
Soon people began applying “probably both” to everything. Was the new software efficient? Probably both. Was the lunch healthier than before? Probably both. Did the company have a future? The silence following that question was technically longer than acceptable in professional environments.
Meanwhile, outside the office, the city continued its ordinary acrobatics. Buses inhaled passengers. Cyclists ignored mortality with admirable concentration. Somewhere nearby, a violinist played the same unfinished melody for nearly three weeks. It wasn’t bad, exactly. It simply refused to arrive anywhere. Like a sentence that keeps introducing commas because it is afraid of periods.
A man named Theo sold umbrellas regardless of weather conditions. During sunny afternoons he described rain philosophically. During storms he discussed sunlight with absolute conviction. “Mensen geloven alleen het tegenovergestelde,” he explained once while organizing blue umbrellas into categories that appeared entirely fictional.
Nobody knew where Theo went at night. Some believed he owned a bookstore under a bridge. Others suspected he simply folded into darkness like a receipt.
One evening Martin stayed late at the office because an email had arrived marked “urgent,” although after reading it several times he realized it contained no actionable information whatsoever. It mostly discussed alignment, momentum, visibility, and opportunities moving forward. The email ended with: “Let’s continue the conversation.” There had not actually been a conversation yet.
He leaned back in his chair and listened to the ventilation system perform what sounded like experimental jazz. Somewhere above him, pipes clicked softly. Buildings, he thought, spend enormous effort pretending not to be alive.
At 19:42 the hallway lights dimmed automatically, giving the office the atmosphere of an aquarium after closing time. Martin walked toward the elevator carrying a notebook filled with thoughts he would never revisit. One page contained only the sentence: “The spoon remembers the soup differently.” He had no recollection of writing it.
Outside, the air smelled faintly of rain and overheated electronics. A tram rolled past with the calm dignity of something that knows exactly where it belongs. Martin did not particularly envy the tram, but he respected its clarity.
Near the station, two tourists argued gently about maps. One insisted they were facing north; the other claimed north was “more of an emotional direction.” A dog nearby barked once, perhaps in support of Cartesian certainty. Or perhaps at a sandwich.
“Goedenavond,” said an elderly woman passing by with three oranges in a paper bag.
Martin nodded automatically, though he was suddenly unsure whether the evening was actually good. It was functional, certainly. Adequate in structure. But goodness felt like a higher administrative category requiring approval from somewhere else.
By the canal, the water carried reflections in loose fragments. Neon signs stretched themselves into abstract paintings. A bicycle bell rang in the distance with almost philosophical timing. Martin watched the ripples for several minutes before realizing he had been thinking about chairs. Not specific chairs. Just the general concept.
It occurred to him then that most days are assembled from extremely small misunderstandings held together by routine. People wake up, misinterpret a feeling, answer emails, purchase bread, lose a receipt, remember an old song incorrectly, and continue forward with remarkable professionalism.
“Dat is het leven, denk ik,” he murmured.
A nearby seagull immediately stole half a croissant from an unattended table and flew into the dark like a criminal escaping through administrative loopholes.
Martin considered this carefully.
Then he went home.