The pub was quiet when they returned.
Not silent—never that again—but *hushed*, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
*The Whispering Oak* had closed early by Reg’s decree. A handwritten sign now hung on the door:
**PRIVATE ENGAGEMENT — BACK IN 90.**
Inside, the air smelled of polish, old wood, and the lingering ghost of Clive’s pipe tobacco. The jazz still played—Miles Davis now, cool and searching—but the volume was low, respectful. The bare bulb in the cellar had been replaced with a warm, amber pendant light. The corkboards remained, but the final, blank one now bore two words in Eleanor’s hand:
> **CO-AUTHORSHIP BEGINS**
Dominic stood by the bar, rolling up his sleeves. He’d changed into a soft black knit sweater—no suit, no armor. Just wool and quiet resolv
