Rokus had been at the Institute six months before he started to notice changes to the edifice of the building. Filled screwholes at first, then rectangular discolourations. The institute stood at 22 Rue de la Gare, and always had, so why had a faint ’44’ appeared by the door one day, as if emerging from a thick fog? He traced his hand over the faded numbers, positioned just up and to the right of the current fake-chrome 22.
Two months later, a 63 in baroque freehand. Another month, and the outline of a 38 in 1970s block font, as if charred into the brick itself. The more he noticed, the more he saw, and this soon extended into the building. Carpets bore sun-bleached squares in the middle of the room, dents from long-standing furniture which had never been there. His desk started to show dust-free areas with clearly delineated edges.
Rokus cornered the janitor, who apologised in broken English for the mess and swiftly dusted away the evidence. He just shrugged as Rokus gestured to the faded floor.
In time, these would be the least strange occurrences in Rokus’s career. His family photos, propped on his desk, changed faces, backgrounds and even frames on an almost daily basis.