We found a bench near the station door. The winter air was cool, crisp, but not unfriendly. Just enough to remind you you were alive. This station wasn't too busy, and this wasn't peak hour; only the occasional person came and went. We were far enough so we could have some privacy.
Mark sat first, his hands tucked loosely into his coat pockets, his shoulders drawn in—not closed, just braced. I sat beside him, not too close, but not far either. The silence stretched in that comfortable way it sometimes did now, when neither of us was trying to fill it just for the sake of filling it.
He exhaled, slow and even.
"You can start," he said, gently. "If you want. I've been stuck in my side of things for so long… I want to hear yours."
I looked down at my hands. They were clenched in my lap, the fingers of one hand wrapping around the other like they could hold something steady.
"Okay," I said quietly. "I think I should start with Edward."
