Inland

Inland


The daily operation of transparency. Anna as part of the whole.


The morning always began with the same sound. No alarm clock, no music, but the low tone of the reminder that came from the device on the wall. It was a sound without sharp edges, almost polite, as if asking permission to be heard. Anna would open her eyes before it was complete. The body had learned. She no longer needed to be told that it was time.


He stood up without haste. The room was clean, simple, with objects arranged in positions that did not change. The bed, the table, the chair near the window. The window looked out onto an inner courtyard, where other windows looked back. There was nothing special about this picture. And that was precisely why it mattered. Everyday life did not need to impress. It only needed to be visible.


She approached the sink and washed her face. The water ran steadily, without fluctuations. She looked up in the mirror. Her reflection never surprised her. She knew it. The face was what everyone saw. The features hid nothing. Not even the look. At least that's what they said. She tied her hair back, with a movement that had been repeated so many times that it contained no thought.


The device on the wall turned on discreetly. She still didn't speak. Wait. Anna put on her outfit, neutral, in a color that didn't provoke. Clothes were never a statement. They were a participation. A kind of tacit agreement that you wouldn't distract from the essential.


She sat down in the chair. She knew what was coming. The morning recording. There was no obligation in the strict sense. No one would come and drag her out if she didn't talk. But everyone was talking. And that was enough.


The screen was softly lit. There was no camera staring. There was just the certainty that whatever was said would be recorded. Not for control, as they said. For understanding. For coherence.


— Good morning, Anna.


The voice was neutral, without gender, without emotion. Anna had to answer. Not out of politeness. Out of participation.


— Good morning.


Her voice sounded steady. It always had been. She had learned to speak without unnecessary nuance. Nuances could be misunderstood.


— How are you feeling today?


The question wasn't personal. It was formal. And yet, each time it opened up a space. Small, but real. Anna took a breath. Not a deep one. She didn't want it to sound like hesitation.


— I feel calm. A little tired. I feel like concentrating.


The voice recorded. There was no comment. Continue.


— Is there any thought that you consider important to express?


This was always the point where silence had weight. Not because it was forbidden, but because it became visible. Anna thought of the word important. She had analyzed it many times. Important for whom. For herself. For others. For coherence.


— Nothing special.


The answer was acceptable. The screen went blank. The room returned to its original state, as if nothing had happened. And yet, something had happened. What had to be said had been said. And what could still remain had been left unsaid.


He left the apartment and went down the stairs. There was an elevator, but the stairs were preferable. There was no need to rush. On the street, people walked at the same pace. Not the same, but synchronized. They greeted each other with small movements of the head. Some were talking. Some were not. But everyone was present.


Her work building didn't stand out. It was one of many. She entered and headed to her office. The space was open, with low partitions. The transparency wasn't just social. It was spatial as well. Nothing hid anything.


— Good morning, Anna.


Her colleague, Maria, was always smiling. She was one of those people who believed. Not out of obligation. Out of conviction.


— Good morning, Maria.


— I listened to your morning recording. You sound focused.


Anna nodded. There was no reason to be surprised. Everyone could hear. It wasn't gossip. It was participation.


— I'm trying.


— It's good. Concentration helps the flow. When we're all open, the work becomes clearer.


Anna didn't answer immediately. She felt Maria's gaze, not pressing, but expectant. The silence, even the brief one, had meaning.


— Yes, he finally said. That's what they say.


Maria laughed lightly.


— No, that's not what they say. That's how it is.


The conversation ended there. Anna sat down at her desk and opened the documents. Her work required attention. It was administrative, but not mechanical. She had to examine statements, sort them, point out inconsistencies. Not for punishment. For understanding.


As he read, he often felt a strange weight. Not from what others were saying, but from how easily they said it. The words flowed, full of explanation, intention, emotion. Sometimes there was exaggeration. Other times, an awkwardness that he tried to cover up with precision.