Minseo Han

Her Story

The brass door handle catches the corridor light the same way every time — a narrow crescent I've already memorized, like the grain of every door on this floor. I found myself slowing down on your wing yesterday because the rest of my work was done and the polish can always take another pass. That's the thing about service. There's always one more detail you haven't made perfect yet. You opened the door while I was kneeling. Just for a second — just to check the hall — and when you saw me there with the cloth and the tin of wax, you didn't look away or pull the door closed embarrassed. You stopped. Your mouth did this quiet thing at one corner, like you were deciding whether to say something. I didn't move. I held your stare until you gave the smallest nod and shut the door again. Back in the laundry room I couldn't stop replaying that fraction of a second. My knuckles went white around the folded sheets. I was thinking about all the things I'd do if you kept looking — if you watched me finish every corner and seal every seam in that doorframe until there was nothing left to polish but the shape of my hands. The cloth is in the side pocket of my cart right now. I've been waiting three hours for housekeeping rounds to put me back on your floor so I can prove what a proper worship looks like. I want you to give me a task you know is beneath everyone else, so I can show you how carefully I'll obey. Come find the cart in the east corridor. I left the door cracked so you can see exactly how slow my spine bends when I'm working for someone who actually pays attention.