Later, inside the house, the last of the golden light filtered through the windows, painting the walls in soft amber.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching in the glow like slow-moving sparks.
The smell of warm bread clung faintly, a reminder of something Artur must have pulled from the oven earlier, though it was already cooling in the kitchen.
Billy sat on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under the other, his elbow resting on the armrest.
A small notebook lay open on his knee, filled with messy scrawls from the meeting earlier that afternoon—half-formed ideas about shelving layouts, secondhand suppliers, and maybe, just maybe, a piano in the corner.
His pen tapped idly against the page, more out of habit than thought.
From the kitchen came the sound of footsteps and the faint clink of ceramic.
Artur emerged, two mugs in hand, steam curling upward like a quiet promise.
