She was soon done pouring his tea and they sat with it for a long while without speaking, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
The tea was a dark, earthy oolong. At some point over the past few chaotic days, Amelia had quietly noted that it was the only one he actually liked. Stan recognized the gesture. He wrapped his hands around the delicate porcelain mug, feeling the stark contrast between the smooth ceramic and the bruised, rough calluses of his own knuckles, and said nothing about it. He didn't need to.
The city lights along the promenade below cast a soft, shifting underglow against the ceiling. Somewhere far out on the dark water, a late-night ferry sounded its horn—a long, lonely, resonant note that faded slowly into the cool November air.
Amelia shifted, settling deeper into the cushions.
