The Stapler and the Secret

THE STAPLER ON JENNA’S DESK WAS THE SAME ONE FROM THE OLD BUILDING FIRE

I walked past Jenna’s desk and my eyes snagged on the battered, silver stapler sitting right by her keyboard. That scuff mark near the hinge, the specific way the paint was peeling – it couldn’t be.

My stomach dropped. I remember holding that exact stapler, hot and warped, after the sprinkler system finally kicked in. The fluorescent lights of the new office suddenly felt too bright, too sterile compared to the acrid smell of smoke still lingering in my memory.

Jenna looked up, her smile faltering when she saw my face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice small. I pointed, my hand trembling slightly. “That,” I whispered. “Where did you get that?”

Her eyes flickered away, a strange mixture of fear and something else I couldn’t place washing over her face. The low hum of the server room felt deafening in the sudden silence between us.

Someone cleared their throat right behind me.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…Someone cleared their throat right behind me. I spun around, startled. It was Mark, our office manager, looking from me to Jenna with a questioning frown.

“Everything alright here?” Mark asked, his tone even but carrying the subtle weight of authority.

Jenna cleared her throat, regaining her composure with surprising speed, though a faint flush remained high on her cheeks. “Just… just talking about office supplies,” she said, managing a small, strained laugh. “I found this old stapler, and Dave here seems to recognize it.”

My gaze was still fixed on the damaged metal on her desk. “It’s from the old building,” I said, my voice still unsteady. “From the fire. It was on *my* desk.”

Mark’s eyebrows went up slightly. “Oh? Didn’t think much made it out of there usable. Most of it was smoke and water damaged.” He looked at the stapler. “Looks a bit rough.”

Jenna picked up the stapler, turning it over in her hands, avoiding my gaze. “Yeah, well, they salvaged a few boxes of miscellaneous stuff that hadn’t been too badly burnt, mostly destined for the skip. I found this in one of them. Thought it had character,” she mumbled, setting it back down almost carelessly. “Didn’t realize it was… specifically yours, Dave. Sorry.”

She sounded convincing, almost. But the swiftness of her recovery, the way her eyes darted away, didn’t sit right. Found it in a box? A box of fire salvage? Why would *this*, warped and smelling faintly of old smoke if you got close enough, be kept at all? And why would she pick it out? It felt too specific to be random, too personal to be just a curiosity from a trash heap.

“Character?” I echoed, the word feeling hollow. It wasn’t character to me; it was a relic of a terrifying day, a day we were lucky to walk away from. And seeing it here, on her desk, felt like a punch to the gut.

Mark stepped closer, peering at the stapler. “Honestly, Jenna, maybe just get a new one. We’ve got plenty in the supply cupboard.” He gestured towards the aisle. “That thing looks like it’s seen better days.”

“Right, yes, you’re probably right,” Jenna said quickly, scooping the stapler into her hand again. “Just a silly old thing.” She started to turn towards the supply room, the movement just a little too hurried.

I watched her go, the back of her head rigid, the stapler clutched in her fist. The fear I’d seen on her face moments ago hadn’t vanished; it had simply been masked by a flimsy excuse and a hasty retreat. The “something else” I couldn’t place still lingered in my mind – was it guilt? Evasion? It felt colder than simple embarrassment.

Mark clapped a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Rough memory, huh?” he said sympathetically. “Seeing stuff from the old place.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, but my mind wasn’t on the fire anymore. It was on Jenna, walking away with that specific, damaged piece of metal. A piece that wasn’t just “salvaged junk” to me. And the unsettling feeling that her explanation was anything but the whole story. The sterile office air no longer felt just too bright; it felt heavy with unspoken questions, and the shadow of an old fire seemed to stretch longer than I’d thought.