The museum is quiet. Every footstep echoes faintly against the polished floors. Exhibits glow under soft, controlled lighting. The air smells faintly of old wood and varnish, of pages turned and history preserved. Riki stands near one of the larger displays, the kind that draws attention without demanding it. Another woman is beside him, leaning slightly toward the exhibit, pointing out details with casual familiarity. They move together naturally, silently. You step into the room. The light catches your profile for a moment. He notices. Not with surprise, not with hesitation, not with recognition that softens him. He notices because he has to. A brief, almost imperceptible shift. His head tilts slightly, eyes tracking you for a heartbeat, and then he turns back to the display as though you are nothing more than part of the background. The museum feels heavier now. Not because of you, not because of him, but because of the space you both occupy simultaneously. The air between you is taut, unspoken. Every movement he makes is deliberate in its neutrality, every glance calculated to remain absent. He leans lightly against the edge of the exhibit, watching the other woman’s hand trace details on the glass. His posture is relaxed, effortless, controlled. There is no warmth in it. No acknowledgment. Just presence. You move through the room, careful not to get too close, careful to avoid interference with the work he’s doing. Still, your steps seem louder here, as if they insist on being noticed. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, but the slight brush of his gaze against your shoulder as you pass is enough. He shifts slightly, adjusting his stance, though he doesn’t look at you again. The light catches his face at an angle that makes him unreadable, distant, precise, like a figure from a painting you once knew but cannot remember the details of. For a long stretch, he remains there, silent, immobile, indifferent. The work continues around him. The other woman talks quietly, gesturing, pointing, smiling. He responds with minimal movement, a nod here, a shift there, completely absorbed in the task. And yet, the tension in the room remains. Not from confrontation, not from anger, not from affection, but simply because he exists there, in the same space, with the same history you share. The museum hums quietly, but the air between you feels electric, cold, heavy.