The night had thinned to gray.
The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled like endings.
Charlton Daniel sat in the parlor of The Nest, the fire long since burned down to amber veins. He hadn't moved for hours. The sound of the rain had kept him company—steady, patient, like a clock that refused to run out.
He knew where she had gone. He'd known the moment she'd put on her cloak, her silence heavy but not secret. He didn't stop her—because love, he'd learned, wasn't a leash. It was waiting, even when every part of you wanted to follow.
He poured himself another glass, untouched. The brandy caught the faint flicker of light. She'll come back, he told himself once. Then again. Then again, until the words became prayer.
And when the latch finally turned—when the soft creak of the door cut through the quiet—he didn't rise right away. He only looked up.
