ZAIJIAN HEWSON
The apartment was unusually quiet.
Only the gentle bubbling of the soup simmering on the stove and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock filled the silence.
Acir sat across from me at the dining table, both hands wrapped around a mug of warm chamomile tea I’d made before serving dinner. She hadn’t spoken much since arriving. Every now and then, she’d absentmindedly trace the rim of the mug with her thumb, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
She looked exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. I can sense it in my bones.
The incident at Moon Café had shaken her more deeply than she probably realized.
When I called her baby earlier, it was a slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean to regard her in that way, but seeing her in such a confused manner had awoken a different feeling
