The rooftop was empty. The table held only a covered ceramic pot and a small bowl. Thomas lifted the lid; the steam from the vegetable soup hit his face, smelling of rosemary and earth.
He knocked on Genny's door, calling her name, but the only response was the faint, rhythmic creak of a floorboard from within. She was there. She was listening. She just didn't want to be seen.
"I don't know what's eating you, Genny, but I hope you're okay," he shouted toward the door after he finished the soup. "And thanks for the meal. It was great."
He waited another minute, but silence was his only companion. He retreated to his own apartment, the weight of the day finally beginning to pull at his shoulders. He threw himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and the flickering shadows cast by the streetlamp outside.
