The note burned through her jacket pocket into her skin, as if the word on it was hot-branded. Come. No place, no time. And yet Lina knew where her feet wanted to go before she herself knew. Not to the old hall, not to the warehouse of the trial by fire. No note led there, only decisions. The note sounded softer. Like a whisper you recognize, even when it has no name.
She went home first because that's where one goes. Sabine put down the pot, said something about pasta; Markus asked about the battery; Tom kicked the ball against the hallway. Everything was where it belonged. Lina didn't linger. "I'm studying," she said, closed the door, sat by the window, let the minutes run down the glass pane. Then she got up, put on her jacket, pocketed the note and wrote a message to the family chat: Going for a run. Phone with me. A heart, to make it look like everyday life.
