The specialist's office was quiet enough to hear the dust settling on the ancient ledgers. Roy, the archivist, had spent the last hour hunched over a light table, his charcoal pencil scratching against thick vellum. The sound was hypnotic, a rhythmic scraping that made the silence in the room feel even heavier.
I stood by the window, watching the rain-slicked streets of San Francisco below. My mind, however, was miles away, trapped in the memory of the intimacy I had fled from this morning. The ghost of Asher's touch still burned on my skin, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile task at hand. Behind me, I could feel Asher. He stood by the desk, his arms crossed over his broad chest—a dark pillar of patience that felt more like a coiled spring ready to snap.
"It's done," Roy whispered, his voice cracking with age.
