Sóleyra looks like a junior clerk who has stepped out of a silent office and into a dangerous street. Her youthful face is symmetrical and almost forgettable at first glance, with a narrow jaw, straight nose, pressed lips, and deep brown eyes that are both clinically alert and unexpectedly warm. Her short dark-brown hair lies so neatly that it seems combed by geometry. She stands perfectly upright, never leaning unless she is deliberately inspecting something. Her movements are economical and quiet, with a slight forward inclination when she walks, as though following an invisible line of text. The first thing most people notice is her hands: long-fingered, extremely steady, and faintly rough along the fingertips from years of sorting rough parchment, sealing wax, and archival thread. One contradictory detail disrupts her immaculate appearance: a small smear of blue ink permanently stains the whorl of her left thumb, despite her constant efforts to remove it. She leaves the impression of a locked cabinet that has decided, briefly, to speak.