The dinner table is set like a painting.
Every fork aligned. Every glass catching the dim light. The café lamps have been turned low—only this table still glows, a small island of warmth in the growing darkness. Beyond the windows, the garden has faded into night. Only shadows remain.
Alara and her husband sit across from me. Their hands touch across the table. Their eyes meet. They smile at each other like there's no one else in the room—speaking softly about things I don't bother to hear.
I sit back, tired. The kind of tired sleep doesn't fix.
I check my watch. Almost midnight.
I should be home. In bed. Alone.
I sip my wine, letting it rest on my tongue before I swallow.
Silas sits beside me, nodding at something Sum is saying. Across the table, Sum leans forward, hands moving as he talks—some story, some joke, something that probably doesn't matter.
He's been talking for an hour. Maybe more.
I glance at Silas.
