Greyford adjusted without announcement.
The square looked the same in the morning. The benches were dry. The bakery opened on time. A delivery truck idled longer than usual before pulling away. Nothing was wrong in a way that could be reported. Everything was wrong in a way that could be felt.
Vince stood across the street from the station and did not go in.
He had learned the rhythm by now. The town liked to be watched, but only from a distance. When someone stepped too close, it turned ordinary and waited for them to leave.
He crossed instead toward the diner. The bell above the door rang once. Too loud. A few heads lifted. No one stared for long.
Mrs. Hill was already behind the counter, flour on her hands, her apron clean in the way only someone who had just started work could manage.
"You're early," she said.
"Didn't sleep much," Vince replied.
She nodded as if that explained everything. She poured coffee without asking. Set it down gently. Left space around it, like the cup might need air.
"You staying long today," she asked.
"For now."
That answer passed inspection. It always did.
He took a seat by the window. From there he could see the station door. Robert Mercer's car was already parked. That meant meetings. That meant decisions framed as logistics.
The coffee was hot enough to demand attention. Vince welcomed it.
A man at the counter spoke quietly about a missed inspection. Someone else mentioned a file that could not be located. Names were not used. They did not need to be.
Greyford was practicing a new kind of silence. One that moved.
When Vince finished, he left exact change. Mrs. Hill touched the coins once before sliding them into the register. She did not look up.
Outside, Caleb stood by his county vehicle, clipboard tucked under his arm, jacket unzipped despite the cold.
"You avoid the station on purpose," Caleb said.
"Not avoiding," Vince replied. "Observing."
Caleb smiled faintly. "That tracks."
They stood together without urgency. The street carried sound differently today. Every step seemed louder than it should have been.
"People are asking questions," Caleb said. "Not the right ones. But more than before."
"Questions change shape," Vince said. "Answers don't."
Caleb studied him. "You going to push this?"
Vince looked back at the station. The flag moved once, then settled.
"No," he said.
Caleb waited. "That's not what I expected."
"It's not finished," Vince added. "That's different."
Caleb accepted that too. He always did. He scribbled something on his clipboard that meant nothing officially. Then he walked away.
Vince circled the block instead of heading straight back. Past the clinic. Past the alley where the Running Lady had once passed without slowing. The door there was shut now. Locked. New padlock. Cheap metal. Temporary.
He did not touch it.
At the clinic, Claire was at the desk, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back tighter than usual. She looked up when she saw him, relief crossing her face before she corrected it.
"You okay," she asked.
"Yes."
"That was not the question," she said.
He leaned against the counter. "I'm not doing anything today."
Her eyes searched his. "That sounds like a decision."
"It is."
She considered that. "You leaving?"
"Soon."
Not today. Not announced. But soon.
Claire nodded once. "They'll notice."
"They already have."
She hesitated. "Is that what you want."
Vince watched a patient sign in, hand shaking slightly as they filled out a form they had completed dozens of times before.
"I want to leave them with what they already know," he said.
"That doesn't sound like justice," Claire said.
"No."
"It sounds like restraint."
"Yes."
She reached for a file and slid it into a drawer that did not need organizing. Something to do with her hands.
"You're choosing what not to take," she said.
"I'm choosing what they have to live with," Vince replied.
Outside, a car door slammed. Voices rose briefly, then dropped. Someone laughed too quickly.
Claire spoke again, quieter now. "Will you come back."
Vince met her eyes. "I don't think Greyford allows that."
She smiled, small and tired. "It allows more than it admits."
He left the clinic without saying goodbye. That mattered. Endings announced themselves. He did not want one.
At the edge of town, he stopped his car and got out. The road curved away, disappearing between trees stripped bare by winter.
He opened his trunk. Looked at the files he had kept separate. Copies. Notes. Observations that could be handed over, published, explained.
He closed the trunk.
Some truths did not need escort.
Greyford would do the rest on its own.
When he drove away, nothing followed him. The town remained intact. Quiet. Watching the space he left behind, measuring what it could no longer contain.