The museum held sound the way a good hand holds a wrist—firm enough to steady, gentle enough to allow pulse. When the car door closed on Cheyenne and the driver eased away from the curb, the rotunda swallowed the last trace of her perfume, and the marble returned to being a cold ocean. I stood under the skylight a moment longer, letting the moon cut a pale circle over the floor where our breath had braided. My reflection in the glass looked like a man who had done the right thing and hated the efficiency of it.
She had asked me what I do for a living. I respect a question that lands like a stake. Most people orbit mystery because approaching it burns. She didn’t orbit. She stepped closer and asked for heat. I gave her a measured truth. That is my habit, my craft, my ruin and my salvation.
