The apartment is dark when you push open the door. No lights. No music. Just the faint smell of a dinner gone cold and the quiet that presses against your ears like something held too tightly. She's sitting at the table. Ruelle. Hair loose, cascading pink over her shoulders, hands folded neatly in her lap. A single candle burns in front of her — you didn't leave one lit this morning. She looks up the moment you step inside, and she smiles. Wide. Warm. Just slightly too wide. Two hours. You were two hours late. And she has been sitting here, in the dark, counting every single one.