The Note

"In an age when everything leaves a trace, a handwritten note isn't old-fashioned—it's a warning."

The lobby's artificial lighting cast a sickly fluorescent glow across the polished marble floor, and I felt the familiar micro-adjustment ripple through my body as I crossed the threshold—that subtle recalibration from outdoor self to indoor self, from private citizen to government employee. The contrast with the golden morning I had just left behind was jarring, almost violent, as though I had stepped not merely into a building but into an entirely different quality of existence.

The air inside carried that distinctive institutional scent: recycled and filtered, stripped of anything resembling organic origin, faintly undercut by cleaning products and the ghost of yesterday's microwaved lunches. After the salt-tinged breeze off the Derwent, it felt like breathing through gauze. My lungs registered a small protest that I had long since learned to ignore.

I gravitated toward the pair of lifts in the usual morning-hum style, their brushed steel doors reflecting my approaching figure in elongated, distorted waves. The reflection that stared back at me was a funhouse version of myself—stretched and warped, features sliding into one another like a portrait left too long in the sun. I looked away. There was something unsettling about those reflections, the way they seemed to capture a truth about the building's occupants that the marble and glass were designed to obscure.

The caffeine from my morning coffee continued its electric dance through my system, and I jabbed the call button with perhaps more enthusiasm than the gesture warranted. The lift arrived with a soft chime, its doors parting to reveal an empty cabin lined with mirrors that multiplied my reflection into an infinite regression of Nathans, each one slightly smaller, slightly more distant, disappearing into some vanishing point I couldn't quite locate.

I stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor, watching the doors slide closed with the pneumatic hiss of institutional efficiency. The lift began its ascent, and I caught myself humming—that infernal pop song from the café had lodged itself in my consciousness with the tenacity of a splinter, refusing to be dislodged. My foot tapped against the carpeted floor in unconscious rhythm, the morning's buoyancy still carrying me upward even as the lift did the same.

The corridor stretched before me as the doors opened, that long expanse of neutral carpet and neutral walls and neutral lighting that seemed specifically engineered to suppress any emotion more intense than mild professional satisfaction. Motivational posters lined the walls at precise intervals—photographs of mountain climbers and rowing teams accompanied by words like "Excellence" and "Collaboration" rendered in fonts that presumably tested well in focus groups. I had stopped seeing them years ago, my eyes sliding past their aggressive optimism with practised indifference.

My electronic fob granted me passage with its characteristic digital chirp, and I bounded through the office door with that same café tune still playing in my head, my body apparently determined to maintain its rebellious cheerfulness despite the environment's best efforts at suppression. The open-plan space sprawled before me, a meticulously arranged landscape of ergonomic chairs and dual monitors bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

From this elevated vantage point, the Derwent River sparkled in the distance, its surface already adorned with early morning sailing boats—white specks against the blue—and the occasional cargo vessel making its laborious way toward the port. The view never failed to momentarily arrest me, this stunning natural panorama framed by the sterile geometry of office architecture. It felt like a promise the building couldn't quite keep, a reminder of the world that existed beyond these climate-controlled walls.

"Morning, Nathan," Sal called out from the far side of the office, her voice carrying across the mostly vacant space with a clarity that only exists in the early hours. She was invariably early, a fixture of these quiet morning interludes, as reliable as the coffee cart that established its temporary domain in the building's lobby each day at precisely seven-thirty. Her desk was already surrounded by neat stacks of paper, colour-coded folders, a small ceramic pot of succulents providing the only organic element in her workspace.

I returned the greeting with a cheerful "Good morning" of my own, offering a perfunctory wave as I hastened toward my desk along the back wall. Despite my outwardly pleasant disposition, I wasn't inclined toward casual conversation this morning. This was what I cherished most about arriving at the office before eight—the blessed solitude. The silence possessed a particular quality, broken only by the gentle hum of computers and the distant, almost subliminal whisper of the air conditioning.

These precious minutes before the office filled with the cacophony of ringing phones and impromptu meetings constituted the most productive time of my day. Or at least, the time when I could pretend to be productive without the constant interruption of colleagues who seemed constitutionally incapable of resolving even the smallest query without a fifteen-minute conversation.

Reaching my desk, I let my backpack drop to the floor with a soft thud—

And stopped.

My expression changed before I consciously registered what I was seeing, brows furrowing as my eyes locked onto a small yellow Post-it note that had been meticulously affixed to the top of my monitor. The paper seemed to glow against the dark screen, a rectangle of sunshine in this grey-toned landscape, demanding attention with an almost physical insistence. It sat there, perfectly centred, its edges aligned parallel to the monitor's frame with a precision that spoke of deliberate placement rather than casual afterthought.

I stood frozen, my hand still extended from releasing the backpack, my body caught in that peculiar suspension between one moment and the next. Something in me knew—before I read the words, before I processed their meaning—that this small yellow square was about to change something. The air in the office seemed to thicken, the ambient hum of electronics growing louder in the sudden stillness of my attention.

I read the note in silence.

Meet me for lunch today at Cornerstone Café 12pm sharp. Very important. Don't ask questions. Don't tell anyone. Seth.

A chill cascaded down my spine, so distinct and physical that I actually glanced toward the air conditioning vent above my desk, half-expecting to find it blasting directly onto my neck. But the vent sat dormant, its slats angled away from my position. The cold was coming from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere internal.

My shoulders executed an involuntary shudder, a full-body response that I couldn't have suppressed if I'd tried. I read the note again, then a third time, as though repetition might somehow alter its contents, might transform these strange imperative sentences into something ordinary, something explicable.

The handwriting was unmistakably Seth's—that peculiar amalgamation of printed and cursive letters I'd observed countless times before on meeting notes and birthday cards, the capital letters standing rigid and upright while the lowercase tumbled into each other with schoolboy looseness. But there was something disconcertingly different about it this time, an urgency in the pressure of the pen strokes that seemed to telegraph anxiety. The normally fluid lines appeared jagged and rushed, the letters pressing hard enough into the paper to leave small indentations visible when I tilted the note toward the window light. The "S" of his signature was almost violent, the pen having nearly torn through the adhesive square.

I had known Seth for a considerable time, our friendship stretching back to my first job after relocating to Tasmania a little over ten years ago. He was a fresh-faced graduate with an economics degree and an unshakeable conviction that every major world event concealed a secondary, more interesting explanation. I'd just moved from Port Macquarie, barely a year out from completing my own degree through the University of South Australia—business systems, a qualification I'd chosen more for its employability than any genuine passion.

We both worked for the same private finance company back then, navigating the early days of our careers in adjacent cubicles, exchanging conspiracy theories over lunch breaks and after-work drinks that stretched later than either of us intended. Seth would arrive at my desk with printouts of obscure forum posts, his eyes bright with the particular enthusiasm of someone who had discovered a pattern everyone else had missed. Fluoride in the water supply. The real purpose of the Pine Gap facility. Why certain politicians always wore the same colour tie during specific types of announcements.

I'd humour him, mostly—but occasionally, he'd present something that made me pause, some connection that felt too neat to be coincidental. Those were the moments I came to treasure, those rabbit holes we'd disappear down together, emerging hours later with more questions than answers but somehow feeling like we'd accomplished something meaningful.

Those were undeniably simpler times, when our most pressing concerns revolved around meeting quarterly targets and deciding which pub to patronise on a Friday night. Before life acquired its current weight. Before we learned that some mysteries were better left unexplored.

We'd remained good friends even after our professional paths diverged—myself into government, working as a business analyst on large-scale IT projects, and him into private consulting with a firm that sent him travelling across the state more often than he'd like. The friendship had evolved, as adult friendships do, into something less intense but more durable—lunch every few weeks, the occasional weekend barbecue, a standing invitation to each other's birthday gatherings.

Over the years, we'd discussed many peculiar topics. Seth's enthusiasm for the unexplained had never diminished, merely matured into something more focused. We'd dedicated countless hours to examining everything from cryptocurrency conspiracies to whether the Franklin Dam controversy of the eighties concealed more than was publicly acknowledged. He'd developed a particular interest in Tasmania's history of unexplained disappearances, the island's isolation lending itself to theories that would seem absurd on the mainland but felt strangely plausible here, surrounded by wilderness that remained genuinely uncharted.

But this—this marked the first occasion he had ever left me such a cryptic message. And under such bizarre circumstances.

I lowered myself into my chair slowly, the ergonomic mechanisms adjusting beneath my weight with a soft hydraulic sigh. My eyes remained fixed on the Post-it note, now resting between my fingers, the adhesive strip tacky against my thumb.

Why didn't he send a text?

The question surfaced immediately, urgent and obvious. I slipped my mobile from my pocket and set it on the desk, the screen dark and dormant. It looked innocent enough, this slim rectangle of glass and metal, but something about it now felt strangely loaded—like it was hiding a silence that didn't belong.

In an age where almost every interaction passed through a screen, a handwritten note wasn't just old-fashioned. It was intentional. Deliberate. As if Seth had gone out of his way to avoid anything that left a digital trace.

And that's what unsettled me most.

We didn't even work in the same office anymore—hell, not even the same building. For him to leave something on my desk meant he'd made a detour, crossed sites and floors, found a way past reception and security and the electronic fob system that tracked every entry and exit. It wasn't just a message. It was a gesture. A statement. The kind of effort that implied something couldn't be said through normal channels.

The morning light caught the edge of the Post-it, its yellow curl lifting slightly in the breeze from the overhead vent. I smoothed it flat with my thumb, studying the words again as though they might rearrange themselves into something less alarming.

12pm sharp.

That detail sat uneasily in my stomach, a small stone of wrongness that refused to dissolve. Seth was the kind of person who suggested "lunch-ish" or "around noon," his allergy to punctuality a running joke between us. I'd spent countless lunch breaks waiting at various cafés while he materialised fifteen or twenty minutes late, always with the same sheepish grin and the same excuse about losing track of time. For Seth to specify an exact time—to write "sharp," of all words—felt like receiving a ransom note written in a friend's handwriting.

Don't ask questions.

When had Seth ever discouraged questions? His entire personality was constructed around asking them, around peeling back layers of received wisdom to examine what lay beneath. The instruction felt antithetical to everything I knew about him, as though someone had studied Seth carefully and then produced a deliberate inversion.

Don't tell anyone.

I glanced across the office toward Sal, who remained absorbed in whatever task had commanded her early-morning attention. She hadn't noticed anything unusual. Why would she? It was just a Post-it note. People left Post-it notes all the time. There was nothing objectively alarming about a small yellow square adhered to a monitor.

And yet.

Yielding to the compelling urge to seek clarification, I picked up my phone and composed a text message to Seth. My thumbs hovered uncertainly over the keyboard for several moments, drafts forming and dissolving in my mind before I committed to words that felt simultaneously inadequate and necessary.

What's this all about? Are you okay?

The message disappeared into the digital ether with a soft swoosh, that small sound of transmission that usually preceded an almost immediate response. Seth was perpetually attached to his phone, one of those people who seemed to experience phantom vibrations when separated from the device for more than a few minutes. His reply time was typically measured in seconds rather than minutes.

I stared at the screen, willing those familiar three dots to appear—the universal signal that a response was being composed, that connection had been established, that I hadn't simply hurled my words into a void.

Nothing.

The screen remained static, my message sitting there with a single grey tick beneath it. Sent, but not delivered. As though Seth's phone had ceased to exist, had been switched off or destroyed or simply removed from the network entirely.

"Not even a delivered receipt," I muttered.

I stood abruptly, the chair rolling backward with a soft rumble against the commercial carpet. Movement felt necessary—essential, even—as though remaining stationary would allow the creeping unease to catch up with me. My feet carried me toward the kitchen on autopilot, my body executing the familiar route while my mind churned through a catalogue of possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.

The corridor felt elongated, each step drawing out the distance between my desk and the small sanctuary of the staff kitchen. The motivational posters I usually ignored seemed to watch my passage with their frozen athletes and their aggressive optimism. "Success is not final, failure is not fatal." "The only limit is the one you set yourself." The words felt mocking now, their certainty obscene in the face of my mounting uncertainty.

The kitchen was deserted when I arrived, thank God—I wasn't sure I could manage small talk in my current state. Morning sunlight streamed through the eastern window, creating geometric patterns on the worn linoleum floor, the light catching dust motes suspended in the air like miniature planets orbiting an invisible sun. The refrigerator hummed its constant low note. A tap dripped with metronomic persistence, each small splash marking time I suddenly felt I couldn't afford to waste.

I reached for the biscuit tin—that communal repository of comfort food that mysteriously never quite depleted, replenished by anonymous benefactors who understood the essential role of afternoon sugar in office survival. The tin was cool beneath my fingers, its faded tartan pattern depicting some Scottish scene that had been worn to ambiguity by years of handling. I pried off the lid and stared at the contents without really seeing them.

A glimpse of my reflection caught my attention in the microwave door—my face distorted by the slight curve of the glass, eyes wider than I expected, the morning's buoyant mood effectively obliterated by those few enigmatic lines on yellow adhesive paper. I barely recognised the expression. This wasn't the face of someone who had been bouncing to pop music half an hour ago. This was the face of someone waiting for bad news they couldn't yet name.

The Arnott's Assorted Creams offered themselves in their plastic tray, those familiar shapes arranged in their comforting rows—the pink icing, the chocolate ripple, the plain Monte Carlo. I selected a Scotch Finger without conscious thought, the oblong biscuit sitting in my palm like a wholly inadequate talisman against the growing unease coiling in my stomach. It was comfort food, I supposed, though I doubted any amount of shortbread could provide meaningful comfort at this particular moment.

I stood there for longer than was reasonable, dunking the biscuit into a cup of water from the cooler—coffee felt like too much effort, too much commitment to normality. The biscuit softened and threatened to collapse, and I ate it in three joyless bites before the structural integrity failed entirely. The sweetness registered somewhere distant, a flavour experienced by someone else.

I should go back to my desk. I should attempt to work. I should behave as though everything were normal, as though my oldest Tasmanian friend hadn't left me a message that read like something from a spy novel. The rational part of my mind understood this, could articulate all the sensible reasons why I should shelve my anxiety and proceed with my morning.

But rationality seemed to have taken temporary leave, replaced by something older and more insistent—that primal awareness that sometimes surfaces when the pattern of normal life develops a crack, when the familiar reveals itself to contain depths you'd rather not examine.

I returned to my desk through corridors that felt somehow changed, as though the building had shifted subtly during my brief absence. Sal glanced up as I passed, and I manufactured something approximating a normal expression, though I suspected the result was closer to a grimace.

The Post-it note sat where I'd left it, that small yellow accusation waiting patiently beside my keyboard. I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers, half-expecting to find additional instructions on the reverse—coordinates, perhaps, or a coded message that would make everything clear. But the back was blank, just smooth yellow paper slightly tacky with adhesive residue.

Don't tell anyone.

Carefully, deliberately, I folded the note once and slipped it into my wallet, tucking it behind my driver's licence where it couldn't be accidentally glimpsed. The leather closed around it, hiding it from view, and I felt something settle in my chest—not quite acceptance, not quite calm, but something adjacent to both. A decision had been made. Whatever Seth needed to tell me, I would hear it. Whatever this was about, I would see it through.

I checked my phone once more—still nothing, that single grey tick unchanged, my message floating somewhere in the digital void between sent and received.

Four hours until noon. Four hours of pretending that everything was fine, that I could concentrate on system requirements and stakeholder reports while that folded yellow paper pressed against my hip like a small, insistent heartbeat.

I powered up my computer and initiated my usual morning protocol, the familiar boot sequence providing a thin veneer of normality over the chaos quietly building in my mind.