As Stan explained, She listened with the ferocious, terrifying focus of a woman who had already decided to believe him, quietly rearranging the architecture of her entire worldview to fit the impossible things he was saying.
When he finally finished, the silence in the apartment stretched out, heavy and thick.
Then she spoke, her voice scraped hollow and barely above a whisper.
"That night."
Stan turned to her.
"The night I woke up at three in the morning," she swallowed hard, her knuckles white around the glass. "My heart was hammering against my ribs, and I just... I knew you were hurt. I felt it in my chest."
"Yes."
"That was real. It wasn't just a nightmare."
"It was real, Sophie."
Her eyes instantly grew wet, pooling with the sudden, sharp realization of what he had endured. She blinked the tears back with the ruthless efficiency of a professional who spent her life under studio lights.
She took a shaky breath, staring down at the dark red liquid in her glass.
