Morning. The pavilion.
Arthur was already there—same as yesterday, same as always. The reports were stacked in their usual order. The pens aligned. The light fell through the windows in those same dust-moted bands, cutting across the planning table in long rectangles. Everything was ready.
But this time, he didn't start immediately.
He stood at the table, one hand resting near the reports, fingers spread against the paper. Not reading. Not organizing. Just waiting. His posture was still, but his eyes weren't focused on anything in the room—they were aimed at the entrance, steady and patient. His thumb tapped once against the page. Stopped. Tapped again.
Footsteps.
Not imagined. Not a worker passing by. Recognized—the weight, the rhythm, the slight drag of a tired step on stone. Arthur's hand stilled completely.
Vivian entered.
