Three days passed.
Charles and I moved through them in parallel, occupying the same building, the same schedule, the same professional infrastructure, without the conversation continuing. He had told me what happened to my father on the morning of the confession, all of it, his version, the one that matched Elara's documentation and added the weight of his own guilt to the facts he had already known. When he finished, neither of us had known what to do with the space that remained in the room. He had left. I had let him go. And the three days had begun.
