The Glass-Walled Corner
Grace Clarke’s POV
The office hummed with the constant, restless energy of a weekday afternoon. Keyboards clattered in uneven rhythms, printers spat out sheets of paper with sharp mechanical clicks, and the copier wheezed as if exhausted by its own labour. Files were passed over cubicle walls, phones rang, and voices rose and fell, all weaving into a familiar background noise Grace Clarke had grown used to over the years.
The large hall was lined with neat rows of cubicles, a hive of busy employees, each tucked into their own little square. At the far end of the floor, two cabins broke the pattern: one larger, fully furnished space with the polished air of a boss’s office, and beside it, a glass-walled cubicle—larger than the others but still modest, barely big enough to seat three.
That was Grace’s corner. Her little territory for the last year.
She hadn’t meant to end up here. Six years ago, when her internship ended, she was offered two choices: leave, since there was no opening in her department, or accept a position in the Industry Outreach & Liaison (IOL) Department as a junior liaison officer. The IOL department wasn’t glamorous. The opportunities for growth were slim, especially in her post; the path upward was almost non-existent. But Grace had needed money, and the job came with a steady paycheck. She’d taken it, telling herself it was temporary. Six years later, she was still here. Her former co-interns had all climbed higher—into marketing, finance, strategy. Some had already moved up several levels. She stayed rooted to the first floor, tucked into her glass-walled corner. The thought of leaving had come to her a few times, but comfort was a hard thing to walk away from, and her grandmother relied on her. The salary paid the bills, and she knew her place well enough to work without complaint.
Officially, she was now Executive Liaison Officer in the Industry Outreach & Liaison (IOL) Department. The old man who had trained her—Max—had retired the year before, and his cabin had become hers. Her work wasn’t within the company walls so much as outside them: she managed the flow of communication between headquarters and the factories scattered across the country. Problems, data, supply notes, labour issues—anything that arose passed through her desk before it went higher up.
The larger cabin beside hers belonged to Mr Adrian Jones, the director of the IOL Dept. /chief liaisons officer (CLO).In her six years, Grace had seen that chair change hands too many times—some stayed a year, some barely six months. Grace had long ago figured out the pattern: The CLO position was either a punishment post for executives who had fallen out of favour or a short training stint before promotion elsewhere. Jones, in his forties, was decent, hardworking, and slightly misplaced here—but at least he treated her with respect.
Only a handful of people had lasted as long as she had on this floor: Mrs Carmen Santiago, the warm yet sharp-eyed Facilities Coordinator who ran everything from building maintenance to cafeteria contracts with quiet authority; Mr August Webber, the ageing accountant with retirement on the horizon; and, until last year, old Max. Everyone else had come and gone.
Her train of thought was broken by a knock on the glass. She looked up to see one of the newer recruits—Victor Holmes, she thought his name was. He’d joined two months ago, fresh-faced and eager, the type who still carried a notebook everywhere.
“Miss Clarke,” he said politely, “Mr Jones is calling you.”
Grace smiled, pushing back her chair. “Thank you, Victor.”
Jones’s cabin smelled faintly of coffee and paper. He glanced up when she stepped in. “Clarke, how’s the monthly factory data coming along?”
“Almost done, sir,” she replied. “I’ll have it mailed to you by the end of the day. If there’s anything that needs correcting, you’ll have enough time to send it back before the deadline.”
He nodded, relieved. “I trust you with it. You’ve been here… what, 5 years now?”
“Six, sir,” she said with a polite smile.
“Right. Good. Oh, and one more thing—tomorrow a new batch of interns is starting. Our floor is assigned four of them. You’ll need to show them around. I don’t know much about this department myself, so they’ll need your guidance.”
“Of course,” Grace said.
After lunch in the cafeteria with Mrs Santiago and Mr Webber—a ritual of simple meals and simple conversation—Grace returned to her desk and buried herself in spreadsheets and reports. Hours slipped away unnoticed, the office gradually emptying around her until silence replaced the earlier noise. When she finally looked up, the rows of cubicles were dark and vacant.
She glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock. Again.
Grace sighed. Overtime meant extra pay, yes, but it also meant her grandmother would be waiting at home, irritated by another late dinner.
Quickly, she shut down her computer, packed her bag, and slipped out of the building. She had missed the employee shuttle, which always left at seven sharp, and now stood at the public bus stop, headphones in, music soft in her ears. The night air was cooler, the streets humming with the quieter rhythm of the city after office hours.
When the bus finally arrived fifteen minutes later, Grace climbed aboard, settling into her seat. She watched the city blur past in the window, her thoughts wandering in that familiar half-space between weariness and daydreams. Another day done, another paycheck earned. Tomorrow would be the same.
And that was enough. For now.
