Chapter 3 — The Rooftop Garden Key
Emma
Emma Calloway stood in the break room, absently stirring her coffee. The clink of her spoon against the ceramic mug echoed in the sterile space, an oddly human sound amid the cold precision of Whitaker Tech’s headquarters. Everything here repelled personality—the countertops gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the cabinets stood in stark, uniform white, and even the coffee machine, a sleek chrome contraption, seemed more like a piece of lab equipment than something meant to bring comfort. The air carried the faintest hint of disinfectant, as if to scrub away any trace of individuality.
Her gaze drifted to the small corkboard tucked into the far corner, the only sign of humanity in the room. A few outdated flyers hung there—an old charity bake sale, a motivational quote in blocky font—and a neatly pinned schedule for the in-house barista station. Among them, a faded sticky note with a childishly drawn smiley face caught her eye. The ink was smudged, the paper curling at the edges, but it radiated an odd, stubborn cheerfulness. Emma smiled faintly, a flicker of warmth in the otherwise clinical space.
The spell broke when her heel brushed against something on the floor. Frowning, she crouched down and picked up a small brass key attached to a leather fob. It was simple, its tarnished surface worn smooth by years of use. The texture against her fingers felt grounding, solid, and oddly out of place in a building consumed with sleek digital efficiency. She turned it over in her hand, curiosity sparked.
Who even used physical keys anymore in an office where every door opened with a swipe of a badge?
Emma glanced around the empty break room, half-expecting someone to walk in and claim it. But the door remained closed, the quiet undisturbed. Shrugging, she slipped the key into the pocket of her sunny yellow blazer. Its weight settled against the fabric, reassuring, like a tiny secret she’d been entrusted with.
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Later that afternoon, during her lunch break, Emma wandered the upper floors of the building. She told herself she was just stretching her legs, but the key in her pocket tugged at her thoughts, a quiet invitation she couldn’t resist.
The executive floor was different from the bustling open-concept workspaces below. Here, the silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of air conditioning and the soft clicking of her heels on the polished floor. The sleek glass walls and pristine surfaces reflected her as she passed, her vibrant floral blouse and pink pencil skirt standing out like a splash of defiance against the monotony.
She turned a corner, and her steps faltered. There it was—a door she hadn’t noticed before. Unlike the automated sliding doors that dominated the floor, this one was solid wood, its surface worn with faint scratches. A small brass lock gleamed at the handle, its old-world charm clashing sharply with the ultramodern aesthetic surrounding it.
Emma’s pulse quickened as she reached into her pocket. The tarnished brass key felt cool in her palm as she slid it into the lock. It fit perfectly. With a soft click, the door creaked open, the sound breaking the sterile silence like a secret whispered aloud.
---
The rooftop garden wasn’t what she’d expected.
Emma stepped through the doorway, and the atmosphere shifted entirely. The air was cooler here, fresher, carrying the faint, earthy scent of wild grass and damp soil. Sunlight cascaded over long stalks that swayed gently in the breeze, tangled vines climbing weathered wooden trellises. Though overgrown, the space thrummed with a quiet vitality, as if nature had crept in to reclaim what had been forgotten.
At the center of the garden stood a small fountain, its basin cracked and dry but still elegant in its design. Wildflowers peeked through the broken paving stones, splashes of color amid the muted grays of stone and wood. The imperfections—once signs of neglect—now gave the garden a sense of resilience, a kind of beauty that made Emma’s chest ache with something she couldn’t quite name.
She walked slowly, her fingers brushing against the petals of a cluster of purple flowers. The softness beneath her fingertips stirred a memory of her childhood—running through fields behind her house, her mother’s laughter carried on the wind. For a moment, the weight of Whitaker Tech’s rigid expectations fell away, and she let herself linger in the feeling.
A faded plaque near the fountain caught her eye. She crouched to read it, running her fingers over the worn engraving: "Whitaker Tech Rooftop Garden – A Space for Growth and Renewal."
Renewal. The word hummed through her, tugging at something deep inside. She glanced around again, her mind already sketching possibilities. This place could be so much more than an abandoned relic. A retreat for employees. A space to recharge, to connect. A symbol of everything she believed in—balance, creativity, humanity.
She was still lost in thought when the sound of the door opening behind her made her jump.
“Miss Calloway.”
The sharp voice sent a jolt through her. She turned to see Graham Whitaker standing in the doorway, his imposing frame silhouetted against the light. His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, and she had to steel herself against the sudden, overwhelming urge to shrink under his gaze.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice clipped and cold.
Emma straightened, brushing her hands against her skirt as if to steady herself. “I found a key in the break room,” she explained, holding it up like a peace offering. “I didn’t know what it opened, so I thought I’d check.”
Graham’s gaze flicked to the key before returning to her face, his expression unreadable. “This area is off-limits,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Off-limits? Why? It’s beautiful up here.”
“That’s irrelevant,” he replied curtly. “This space was abandoned for a reason. It’s not a priority.”
Emma crossed her arms, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “It could be. This garden has so much potential. It could be a place for employees to unwind, to connect. Don’t you think that would benefit the company?”
Graham’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might simply walk away. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “Miss Calloway, I don’t pay my employees to wander around indulging in personal projects. If you have time to explore, I suggest you redirect that energy toward your actual work.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she refused to back down. “With all due respect, Mr. Whitaker, fostering balance and creativity isn’t just ‘indulging.’ It’s good business. This garden could be a tangible way to show that Whitaker Tech values its employees, not just its bottom line.”
For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—hesitation, maybe, or something deeper. The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire. Then he looked away, the stoic mask slipping back into place.
“Return to your desk,” he said, the finality in his tone unmistakable. “And leave the key.”
Emma hesitated, her fingers tightening around the tarnished brass. But she knew she’d already pushed her luck. With a quiet sigh, she placed the key on the edge of the fountain and walked past him, her heart pounding with frustration.
As the door closed behind her, Graham stood alone in the garden. His gaze drifted over the overgrown vines and wildflowers, his hand brushing absently against the pocket of his suit jacket. The faint weight of his pocket watch seemed heavier than usual.
A memory stirred, unbidden—a younger version of himself standing in this very spot, imagining what the garden could become. The vision had faded over the years, buried beneath deadlines and metrics.
Emma’s words lingered, stubborn and insistent, like the wildflowers pushing through the cracks.
