Late October, The Ministry of Justice.
The rain hadn't stopped since she left.
Christopher Cross sat in the half-light of his office, the clock on the mantel striking somewhere between midnight and morning. The lamp burned low, its flame unsteady — much like the rhythm of his thoughts.
Serena's perfume still lingered in the air. That faint trace of lavender and ash — a scent that had once been merely pleasant, now unbearable.
It clung to the curtains, the collar of his coat, the grain of the desk where her hand had once rested. He tried not to imagine the warmth that had lived there, or how easily she'd taken it with her when she left. Even silence seemed to echo with her absence — every tick of the clock an accusation.
She had said goodbye without saying it.
She had walked out the door, her chin lifted, her composure unbroken, her silence final.
He should have admired it. He did.
And yet, admiration was a poor substitute for control.
