The light shifted slowly through the window — from gold to soft amber. The shadows stretched quietly across the floor, brushing against the faded rug and the piano bench where Billy sat again.
He hadn't played much.
Just touched the keys, here and there. Let them echo.
Sometimes he stopped completely — just sat, hands in his lap, staring at the blank wall.
Outside, the city was starting to slow. The kind of stillness that crept in before evening — a stillness he used to ignore.
Now, he listened.
He moved quietly to the little side table by the couch, pulled open the drawer, and found the small jotter — the one he'd brought from the village. Its cover was bent at the corners now, worn soft.
Inside: two numbers.
Mr. Dand.
Mark.
He stared at Mark's name for a moment, thumb hesitating over the digits. Then he reached for his phone, typed it in slowly, carefully, like the action itself might shatter the quiet.
He stood by the window when the call finally connected.
"Hello?"
