Paul had always blended into the background of the office, the kind of person people noticed only by his habits rather than his presence. He arrived at exactly 8:20 every morning, hung his jacket on the same hook, nodded politely to anyone who made eye contact, and sat down at his desk near the window that overlooked the parking lot. His clothes were clean but worn, his shoes practical rather than stylish, and his voice so soft that meetings often continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all. What people remembered most about Paul, though, was his lunch. Every single day, without variation, he unwrapped the same sandwich from the same brown paper bag. Two slices of plain white bread. No crusts cut. Inside, either peanut butter or ham and cheese, never both, never anything fancy. No chips. No cookie. No soda. Just the sandwich and a small apple. At first, it was just an observation. Then it became a joke. “Living on the edge today, Paul?” someone would say, laughing. Another coworker once asked him if he was saving up for something big, since he clearly wasn’t spending money on lunch.