At some‑point, the noise begins to merge into one continuous hum, like white noise in headphones. You realize that people around you are still talking, laughing, toasting, pretending to live — but your brain just turns off the sound.
So it was now.
After Viktor's letter. After the terrace with George. After Annabelle's business card, which sat on the edge of the plate like a small white knife.
I sat at the table and saw everything as if through an aquarium glass.
Drops of wine on the tablecloth. A golden crumb on someone else's lip. The fingers of a woman in a too-young dress, adjusting an already well-fitting bracelet. The corner of the napkin, crumpled to a tiny white fist.
And-especially — the silver dress by the bar.
The girl George was looking at.
She was... ordinary. Nice. Wit
