Reynard—not the name that he was born with, but then, how many people can be truly defined by their original names in both childhood and maturity? A truly sensible culture would grant a person a new name with every decade of their life, until age and perspective allowed them to choose the name that would grace their tombstone—closed his door. The office was cool and dark, filled with the soft, subtle scents of leather and fresh-turned earth. The former was natural; the latter came from a clever atmospheric spray he’d ordered from an online retailer. They made such amazing things these days. The room was as carefully designed as any home ever featured in a magazine spread. Every piece of paper and bit of memorabilia was positioned just so in front of the leather-bound books that lined the shelves, common enough to suggest eclectic interests, sparse enough not to seem like an unhealthy fixation. The shelves, in turn, lined the walls, creating an illusion of coziness in a space that was actually quite large.
