At exactly 8:00, a woman in a gray uniform unlocked the door. No smile. Just a tired nod. The line inched forward.
Outside, the sun had finally broken through the clouds. Chitila wasn't much — a train stop, a few blocks of flats, a kiosk selling stale cookies. But for Ion, in that moment, the gray building had given him something precious: a future with no shadows. program cazier chitila
When Ion finally reached the window, he slid his ID and a small fee — cash only, exact change — under the glass. The clerk typed something into a green-on-black monitor that looked older than him. Then she stamped a form, ripped it from a perforated pad, and pushed it back. At exactly 8:00, a woman in a gray uniform unlocked the door
He folded the paper carefully and stepped aside. The young woman with the toddler took his place. The old man with the envelope waited behind her. The line inched forward
"No criminal record," she said flatly.
The schedule was posted on a yellowed sheet of paper inside a cracked plastic frame: