He lost someone. I can see it in how carefully he's built the empty space where she was.
'It's not information you need,' he says.
His voice is level. Not cruel … level, which is different, which is the specific register of someone who has decided where the line is and is holding it with both hands.
'You're right,' I say.
He looks at me. A beat of something … assessment, or surprise, or the recalibration of someone who expected more argument.
I pick up my kit bag and I leave.
I don't need his confirmation. I've already assembled the shape of it from the pieces that were available … the sketch, the handwriting, three years, the way he said I've seen it before and then sealed that sentence off like a room he'd accidentally opened the wrong door to. The shape is clear enough. I can see
