The snow creaked beneath your boots as you stepped into the dim little office. It smelled of wet coal and rust. The map on the wall was peeling at the corners, and the fire in the stove was nearly dead. Leo stood by the window, watching the train tracks disappear into the grey distance.

He turned his head only slightly when you entered.

“What did you see?” he asked, voice low and even. No pleasantries. No warmth. Just a direct line to the truth.

You stepped closer and handed him the notes you’d scribbled down during your walk through the village outskirts — the tracks in the snow, the woman who said her son hadn’t come home.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the paper. Cold. Steady.

“Good,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, softer: “Thank you.”

For a moment, the silence between you held weight. In this place, among the lies and the ash, there were only a few things left worth holding onto. And maybe — just maybe — he saw one of them in you.