The woman in the back office was transforming bit by bit each day. No one noticed the incense at first, or the soft music, full of chimes and long sustained notes.
Her wardrobe went from Grandma-shops-at-Kohl's to flowing long jackets to coarse linen robes without any of the busy young women around her looking up from their laptops.
When one had a fight with her boyfriend, she appreciated the chocolate that appeared on her desk.
Another, who had made a very early pregnancy announcement and then a quieter acknowledgment of loss, found a knitted shawl draped over her office chair when she returned to work.
The frazzled supervisor, tense and stressed, found a box of exotic tea and printed funny quotes on her desk after a particularly ugly meeting with her own boss.
It was like working with a mother elf.
All reaped the benefits, but days passed when no one spoke to their office yogi. No one left anything in her office or on her chair.
Being invisible meant that her further transformation, happening right before their eyes, was missed as well.
She grew thinner and paler. She rested more, breathing deeply, moving slowly. Her body felt weaker and less substantial, but she was calm about these changes.
At last, she ascended, leaving a silky fringed kimono in a heap on her office floor as she disappeared in a poof of sandalwood and rose petals.
It was a full day before they knew she was gone.