He knew the schedule. He’d memorized it five years ago, back when he first got out. Back when he’d stood in the correct Monday morning line, heart hammering, only to be told: “Not yet. Come back in November.”
Inside, the precinct smelled of disinfectant and old paper. Fluorescent lights hummed. Victor followed the officer down a narrow hallway, past doors labeled Arhivă , Audiențe , Birou 19 . They stopped at a small window—the same one he’d stood at four times before. Behind it sat a woman in her fifties, reading glasses perched on her nose. Her nameplate said Mihaela Vancu – Secretariat . program eliberare cazier sectia 19
The officer opened the door for him. Outside, the gray Bucharest sky had broken into thin strips of blue. Victor walked to the kiosk across the street. He bought a coffee, took a sip, and sat on the low concrete wall in front of the precinct. He knew the schedule