The silence in Nora's apartment wasn't cold - it was thoughtful. The kind that wrapped around the space like a quiet pact, like something you don't need to explain aloud. Rowan sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, gaze scanning the room with the detached curiosity of someone who wanted to know more without being caught staring. It was the first time he'd ever been invited here. No emergency, no pretext. Just an evening that stretched without expectations.
Nora was in the kitchen, her back to him, sleeves rolled up as she rinsed two glasses. The overhead light framed her face in a soft, golden hue, and for a moment, Rowan forgot the layers that separated them. She looked almost peaceful. Almost. But even in her stillness, there was a kind of tension in the air - the kind that hadn't quite left since the stairwell, since the file, since she had stepped away.
"You want tea or wine?" she called out over her shoulder.
"Whatever you're having," Rowan answered, trying not to sound too eager. He leaned back, letting his eyes drift across the shelves. There were almost no personal items out. No photos. No trophies. Just books and medical papers, a folded blanket, a lamp. Neat. Minimal. Almost like someone who never fully unpacked.
He stood up slowly and walked toward the corner where she kept a spare linen basket. He wasn't snooping, not really - just looking for something to drape over his legs while they sat. But when he pulled the drawer open, something inside shifted.
There was a box. Small. Worn. The kind you don't notice unless you're looking for something else.
And something about it - the careful way it was tucked under old clothes, as if hidden - made him pause.
His fingers brushed over the lid. Then, without really thinking, he opened it.
Inside, there were a few folded pages, a dried-out ribbon, and one photograph. Just one. It was faded at the edges, the colors washed into soft pastels by time. A hospital bed. A young girl - maybe thirteen - with a crooked smile and hollow eyes. Lily.
And behind her... a child.
Smaller. Silent. Half-hidden.
Rowan's breath caught. He recognized the shape of that face. The mouth. The eyes. Nora.
He froze.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
There were no names on the back of the photo. No date. But the truth didn't need a timestamp. It stared back at him quietly, with the weight of years he hadn't lived but now carried anyway.
He heard footsteps behind him.
He barely had time to close the box before Nora stepped into the room.
She handed him the glass without noticing his face at first, speaking casually, "I hope you're not allergic to mint-"
Then she stopped.
Her eyes met his.
Just for a second.
She frowned faintly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied, and the word felt heavier than it should.
He took the glass. His hand didn't shake. But something in his chest had shifted.
Nora didn't push. She didn't notice the change - or if she did, she chose not to name it. She sat down on the floor near the couch, back against the edge, her legs folded beneath her. Rowan joined her, slower this time, his mind spinning while his face stayed still.
They didn't speak for a while.
The TV played quietly in the background, but neither of them paid attention. The silence between them wasn't awkward - it was full of things unsaid.
At one point, she leaned her head slightly against the cushion behind her. "Do you believe some people come back into your life for a reason?"
Rowan's throat felt tight. "Maybe."
She turned her head to look at him, her voice soft. "Do you think you can ever really know someone?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then, instead of answering, he asked, "What would you do if someone kept a part of themselves hidden? Not to lie... but to survive?"
Nora blinked, surprised by the question. She tilted her head slightly.
"I guess it depends," she murmured. "On what they were running from. Or who they were trying to protect."
Rowan nodded once. The words landed. Not just in his mind - but somewhere deeper.
And though neither of them moved closer that night, though no truth was spoken out loud...
something cracked.
Not loudly.
Just enough for air to get in.
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