AMARIS
He came back the next morning.
Not the middle of the night this time, not the hesitant knock of a man who had walked corridors for hours and ended up at my door without deciding to. This time it was proper morning, light coming in at an angle through the curtains, the pack house already making its daytime sounds below. He knocked once and waited, and when I opened the door he was standing there with his shirt buttoned properly and his hair combed, appearing like a man who had made a decision, gotten dressed, and come here on purpose.
That was different. That meant something I was still working out.
I stepped back and let him in.
