She was seated upon the other as if by some silent decree, her posture rigid, uncertain whether this act was permitted, expected, or already condemned. The room was dim, the walls sweating with age, and somewhere outside a door creaked endlessly, like a hinge caught in deliberation. The girl beneath her did not speak. Her face was hidden, obscured by the weight of the other’s body, or perhaps by the weight of the situation itself. What passed between them — mouths, skin, a shuddering breath — felt less like desire and more like a process, some inscrutable ritual they had been instructed to perform without understanding the language it was written in. Above them, a mirror hung crooked, reflecting only fragments: a knee, an elbow, a shadow that might have been a hand or a moth. Neither of them looked into it. They were not ashamed, exactly — but they were watched, somehow. Watched by the silence, by the air itself, by a faceless clerk in a back office who would one day file a report on this moment, mislabel it, and seal it away in a drawer that never opened again