By the first week, Zane had almost convinced himself that this strange routine, this silent orbit he had built around her, might continue indefinitely. Not forever. He was not foolish enough to imagine that. But long enough for the jagged edges inside his chest to dull slightly. Long enough that each breath would not scrape across his lungs like broken glass.
During the days he had spent watching from the edges of her new life, he had begun to recognize the rhythm of her evenings.
He knew the general hour she left the building, though even that varied depending on the day. Sometimes she emerged closer to five thirty. Other days it was later, nearly six, when the sidewalks were already thick with people leaving work. The timing did not matter as much as the moment itself. When she appeared through the revolving doors the rest of the world seemed to narrow around that single movement.
