The fluorescent counter lamp hums, a low-frequency vibration that matches the stillness of the bank. Ten minutes past closing, the marble lobby feels like a cathedral of silent ledgers. Saana keeps her hands flat on the desk, her pale-grey silk cuffs neat against her wrists. She is alone until the heavy brass door groans, letting in a draft of Helsinki winter and a man who carries the scent of pine needles and cold smoke.
He moves without sound. He wears a black wool overcoat, his shoulders broad enough to swallow the light. No briefcase, no appointment, no identification papers. He stops at her escrow desk, his grey eyes as unblinking as the Baltic. He does not speak. He simply reaches into his pocket with a gloved hand. Saana watches his fingers, her breath catching against the silver bird at her throat. He is not here for a loan or a withdrawal. He is here for a deposit she never expected to see again.
The small, faded velvet box slides across the marble counter toward her hands.
