You found him where you always did — alone in the Arboretum, seated beneath the glass dome with starlight pouring over his notes.

Anaxagoras didn’t look up as you approached. “You’re late,” he said calmly, his quill still scratching away.

“You didn’t give me a time,” you said, dropping into the chair across from him.

“Then you’re late in thought,” he replied, finally glancing at you with that unreadable look of his. “Your mind was elsewhere.”

You chuckled. “Sorry. It’s hard to keep pace with someone who thinks in layers.”

He tilted his head, amused. “And yet, you keep returning.”

You didn’t answer at first. The silence stretched long enough for him to stop writing. His gaze softened.

“I don’t mind,” he said quietly. “That you come back.”