She looked at him without understanding. Not pretending—truly empty. She looked down again, clutching the bear to her chest.
Marcus knelt, placing a warm cup of tea at a respectful distance. Steam rose like a small promise.
“I knew someone,” he said softly, “who sang that song.”
Her shoulders tightened, just a fraction.
“Do you have a child?” he asked.
Silence stretched. She looked at the bear, as if consulting it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “His name is Ethan.”
The ground tilted beneath Marcus.
“I lost him,” she continued suddenly. “I hear him in my dreams. He cries… then fades. Like the world turns him off.”
Marcus didn’t rush her.
“He’s not a ghost,” he said carefully. “He’s real. He misses you.”
Her fingers stilled.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Marcus whispered. “If that’s okay.”
She didn’t answer—but she didn’t refuse. And when he left, the tea remained untouched… yet no longer ignored. It looked like a bridge.