Yosef looked down at his hands.
He held them there for a moment, palms open, as if something ought to still be in them -- something weighty, something that explained things -- but there was nothing.
Just skin, faint dust along the knuckles, the memory of pressure that had nowhere to settle now.
He flexed his fingers once, slowly, as though testing whether they still belonged to him in the same way they had an hour ago.
They did.
He slipped both hands into his pockets.
It was a small motion, but it steadied him. The kind of gesture you made when you needed to contain yourself without drawing attention to it.
He drew a breath through his nose and lifted his gaze back to the ceiling.
Four holes.
Three of them carried sunlight in steady, deliberate shafts that cut through the warm, sourceless glow of the garden without disturbing it.
