Mote: The Old Office

The office still smells faintly of burnt coffee and dry-erase ink. You unlock the door like you've done a thousand times before, but this time no one's inside. Desks are bare. Monitors are dark. Whiteboards still carry half-erased plans that once felt urgent enough to change the world. Hidden throughout the silence are twenty forgotten donuts — relics of the nights when panic tasted like frosting and ambition ran on caffeine. You collect them one by one, piecing together what this place used to be and what it cost to build it. Some dreams don't crash. They just echo.