The wine glass was still on the table. Untouched. Catching the glow of the lamp like it wanted to pretend it was full.
Ashcroft sat across from it, elbows on his knees, coat still on.
He hadn't eaten. Hadn't moved much. Just sat in that silence—the kind that stretches, clings, and eventually settles in your lungs.
He tried writing. The journal lay open in front of him. One line scratched down:
There are things I've said to strangers I've never dared say to blood.
He stared at it. Then closed the book.
The knock on the door came soft. Once. Then again.
He didn't move at first. Just looked up like he wasn't sure if it was real.
Then—he stood. Walked over. Opened the door.
Iris stood there, coat unbuttoned, hair wind-blown, not smiling.
She didn't ask. Just said, "Walk."
They walked without direction. Past stone buildings and dim paths. Past windows lit up with other people's quieter lives.
She didn't ask what happened. He didn't offer.
She talked instead. About a professor who pronounced "Nietzsche" wrong three times in one lecture. About a dog she saw eating a baguette whole. About how she once tried to write a play but ended up burning it in a sink.
Ashcroft didn't laugh. But he listened.
At one point, she looked over. "You're quieter than usual. Which is saying something."
"I'm just tired," he said.
"Of what?"
He didn't answer.
They sat on the edge of a low wall near the canal. Water black and still.
Iris kicked at a pebble. "My dad once called me a waste of tuition."
Ashcroft looked at her.
"He said it during dinner," she continued. "Just—like it was a side note. 'Pass the salt. You're a disappointment.'"
Ashcroft said nothing. But he didn't look away.
She didn't flinch. "So I started laughing. Because what else do you do?"
A long pause. Then she said, "You don't have to talk about it. Just... don't disappear."
He nodded. Just once.
Later, back in his flat, Ashcroft stood by his desk. The journal was still closed.
He picked it up. Smoothed the cover. Then opened to the crumpled page.
He didn't write. Just stared at the line he'd started earlier.
Then, slowly, added:
But silence doesn't make it untrue.