She thought about him more than she meant to.
Not in any deliberate way.
Not as a memory she returned to on purpose.
He appeared in the spaces between things—while she folded sheets, while she rinsed a cup, while she stood at the window watching the street below begin and end its day.
It unsettled her.
People were not meant to linger once they left this room. They were meant to dissolve into the noise outside, indistinguishable from everyone else.
He didn't.
Thursday arrived without warning.
She noticed it when the light shifted in the afternoon, when the street below grew louder in a familiar way. She told herself it meant nothing. Thursdays had always come and gone.
Still, she found herself tidying the chair by the wall before she needed to.
When the knock came, she was already standing.
Three soft taps.
She opened the door almost immediately.
He looked faintly surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to be ready.
That same careful expression crossed his face—the one that suggested he never quite expected to be welcomed anywhere.
He stepped inside quietly.
The money went to the table.
Always the same place.
Always untouched until later.
"You're early," she said before she could stop herself.
He hesitated. "Is that alright?"
"It's fine," she replied.
He nodded, relief passing through him so quickly she almost missed it.
He took his usual seat.
The chair by the wall had begun to feel like it belonged to him, though neither of them had said so. She noticed the way he settled into it more easily now, how his shoulders no longer stayed tense for long.
She sat across from him.
Not close.
But closer than before.
"You come straight here," she said quietly.
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"Yes," he answered.
The simplicity of it made her chest tighten.
She wondered what his days looked like before he climbed these stairs. What he carried with him before he set it down in this room.
She wondered when this place had become something he chose, rather than somewhere he passed through.
She poured tea without asking this time.
He noticed.
"Thank you," he said.
They drank slowly.
Outside, a car passed. Somewhere below, someone laughed. The world continued, unbothered by the quiet unfolding above it.
"I didn't think I'd come back after the first time," he admitted suddenly.
She looked at him.
"What changed?" she asked.
He thought for a long moment.
"I felt lighter when I left," he said. "I didn't expect that."
She understood that feeling too well.
This room had taken weight from her before—but it had never given any back.
"You don't have to keep coming," she said, not unkindly.
"I know," he replied. "I want to."
The words stayed with her.
She shifted slightly on the bed, aware of the distance between them, aware of how carefully it was being kept.
"You don't ask questions," he added.
She smiled faintly. "Neither do you."
"I like that," he said.
So did she.
Time passed, gently.
When it neared its end, she felt the familiar instinct to stand, to signal closure. But this time, she hesitated.
Just a second too long.
He noticed.
"If you want me to go," he said, "I will."
"That's not it," she replied.
The truth hovered between them, unspoken.
She almost asked him then.
His name rested at the edge of her tongue, ready to fall.
She swallowed it back.
Some doors, once opened, could not be closed again.
He stood a moment later, slower than before.
At the door, he paused.
"I'll see you next Thursday," he said—not as a question.
She nodded.
After he left, she sat in the quiet room and realized something she couldn't ignore anymore.
This was no longer just a first visit that repeated.