The air was cool now, a soft breeze brushing his face as he walked.
Lamps were being lit in windows, shadows stretching across porches, children's laughter faint in the distance.
When he neared the guest house, the front light was already on, a quiet welcome.
Billy paused outside for a breath, then stepped up to the door and knocked.
A second later, it opened.
Mr. Frank stood there, the expression on his face a complex thing—relief, worry, and something like awe. Like he still couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Hi," Billy said, voice low.
Mr. Frank let out a breath he'd been holding. "You came."
Billy nodded. I figured we should talk.
Mr. Frank stepped aside. Come in, Leo.
Billy didn't correct him. Not tonight.
The guest house was modest, a single light pooling across a wooden table set near the window.
Mr. Frank led Billy in gently, offering a seat without a word.
The kettle hissed softly in the background, but neither of them moved toward it.
