Galathea Brooks stood near the long archive table at the center of the room with one hand braced lightly against its edge.
She looked exhausted.
Not emotionally fragile. Not collapsing.
Just worn thinner than before.
The conversation from earlier had left visible strain across her body. Her posture remained aligned, controlled as always, but there was a slight delay now whenever she shifted her weight. Her shoulders carried tension too deep to hide properly. Even her breathing had changed, quieter but heavier beneath the stillness.
Alistair Triste watched her from the opposite side of the table.
One untouched cup of coffee sat between them.
The library lights caught faintly against the silver spoon resting beside the cup.
Galathea glanced at the coffee first. Then at him.
Understanding landed immediately. There was more.
Of course there was.
"You could've started with the emotionally devastating information first," she said dryly as she pulled out one of the chairs.
