The silence in Nora's apartment wasn't cold. It wasn't the kind of silence that demanded to be filled. It was intentional. A silence that wrapped around the space like a quiet pact, like an agreement not to speak until the words were real. Outside, the city glowed in fragments through the blinds, scattering gold across the hardwood floor. Inside, it felt like the world had paused. Not to stop time, but to let something unfold without being rushed.
Rowan sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers lightly interlaced as he tried not to overthink every breath he took. It was the first time he'd ever been in Nora's space without an emergency between them. No codes, no file drops, no accusations humming beneath their voices. Just the stretch of an evening that hadn't asked for anything, but still carried the weight of something waiting to be said.
Nora moved through the kitchen with the quiet confidence of someone used to solitude. Her sleeves were rolled up, wrists bare, a faint outline of a scar visible just under her elbow as she reached for two glasses in the cupboard. The overhead light pooled around her like stage lighting, soft and gold, turning her into something both grounded and unreachable. Rowan watched without trying to watch. He had always noticed how she moved when she wasn't in a rush. Now, it hit different. Softer. Sadder.
"You want tea or wine?" she called over her shoulder.
"Whatever you're having," he answered. He tried to keep his tone even, but it landed closer to hesitant than neutral. He let his eyes wander the space, taking in the small things she kept out of sight. No framed photos. No childhood trinkets. No evidence of another life. Just shelves of medical texts, a lamp dimmed to amber, a blanket folded with perfect lines over the armrest. It wasn't empty. But it wasn't home, either.
He stood slowly, more to stretch than to search, and wandered toward the corner where she kept a linen basket. A quiet excuse to move. To breathe. He opened the drawer, just enough to look for something soft. Something to cover his legs while they talked. But what he found stopped him cold.
Tucked beneath folded clothes was a box.
Small. Worn. The kind of box that had been opened and closed too many times to count, yet always returned to the same hiding spot. There was nothing particularly noticeable about it. But Rowan felt it in his gut. The way you feel something is not meant to be seen, and yet, it calls to you anyway.
He hesitated. Then, before he could convince himself not to, he opened the lid.
Inside, there were folded notes, a dried blue ribbon, a bracelet with frayed elastic, and a single photograph. Just one.
The image was faded, its edges curling, the color washed into warm sepia. A hospital bed took up most of the frame. On it, a girl maybe thirteen, maybe younger smiled at the camera with an expression that was too wise for her age. Lily.
Behind her, tucked into the side of the image, barely in focus, stood another child.
Rowan's breath caught.
Nora.
Her face was younger, softer, untouched by the edges she carried now but it was her. The same mouth. The same quiet eyes. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't even looking at the camera. Just standing there, half-shadowed, half-guarded. Like a memory trying not to be remembered.
Rowan didn't move. The box stayed in his hands, the photo heavy in his chest. There were no names written on the back. No date. But the truth didn't need a caption. It stared back at him without explanation, and still told him everything.
He heard her footsteps too late.
She entered the room holding two glasses, one in each hand, her voice easy. "I hope you're not allergic to mint"
Then she stopped. Just for a second.
He had closed the box before she saw. He was sure he had. But her eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in instinct. Like something shifted in the air and she could feel it without needing proof.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. It came too quickly. Too clean.
She handed him the glass and sat on the floor with her back to the couch, her knees tucked up. She didn't question him. Whether she noticed or chose to pretend she hadn't, Rowan wasn't sure. She just sipped her drink in silence and stared at the screen that showed nothing.
He joined her a second later, slower than before. Careful not to break whatever thread was still holding them in place. The TV flickered dimly, muted. Some old movie playing a scene neither of them followed. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable. It was thick. Unspoken. Heavy.
After a while, she leaned her head against the edge of the couch. Not toward him. Just enough to release some of the weight in her shoulders.
"Do you believe people come back into your life for a reason?" she asked, her voice low.
Rowan looked at her without answering right away. His chest still felt tight. "Maybe."
She turned her head slightly, her profile catching the faint light. "Do you think you can ever really know someone?"
He didn't look away from her. The truth pressed against his throat, but he held it back. Instead, he asked, "What would you do if someone kept part of themselves hidden? Not to lie. But to survive?"
Her eyes didn't blink. The question landed too precisely not to mean something.
"I guess it depends," she murmured. "On what they were running from. Or who they were trying to protect."
Rowan nodded slowly. His knuckles tightened slightly around the glass in his hand.
Neither of them moved closer.
Neither of them said what was lingering between the lines.
But something cracked that night.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't obvious.
But it let air in.
And sometimes, that was the first step to breathing again.