The first thing you see, from the hallway, is the glitter. A fine, iridescent dusting of it across the floorboards, catching the late afternoon light from the window. Then you see the source. The small, hand-blown glass jar you kept on your desk—the one from the summer market, filled with stardust and sea-polished pebbles—is in pieces. Shards fan out from the impact point against the wall like a frozen explosion.

His eyes find yours. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t get up. A slow, easy smile touches his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re fixed on you, watching, waiting.