But the feeling curdled. Because was also an admission. You can’t restore something that hasn't been lost. And you can't lose something you didn't, on some level, want to be rid of.
The window didn't snap back aggressively. It reassembled itself. First, a ghost of its border. Then, the title bar, stark and blue. Finally, the agonizing grid of cells filled in, row by row, like a slow flood of obligation. It settled into place at the exact size and position it had occupied before its exile—not full-screen, not tiny. Its own specific, remembered shape.
It wasn't "Open." It wasn't "Maximize." It was . A word heavy with implication. It suggested that the window wasn't just hidden, but broken . That it had fallen from grace, and he, Arthur, was its reluctant savior.
And for a single, quiet second, Arthur felt a strange, misplaced sense of power. He had summoned it back. He was the master of this digital poltergeist.
But Arthur just opened a new browser tab. The tiny icon for the spreadsheet sat on the bar, a silent, patient accusation. Its time would come again. It always did.
So he did what he always did. He moved his mouse to the top-right corner of the restored window. And with a practiced, weary click, he minimized it again.
WHUMP.