The air inside Washford’s flat smelled faintly of soap, ironed linen, and the dusty perfume of old books. Afternoon light streamed through lace curtains, catching in the strands of his long ginger hair—loose today, sopping and heavy, as though he’d just emerged from some sorrowful baptism. He sat slouched in a deep leather chair, a porcelain teacup balanced precariously between his thick fingers. His gaze was cast not at the page of the worn poetry collection open in his lap, but out the window, where the world spun on heedless of his private tragedies.

When you entered, he stirred, his blue washer-door chest catching a glimmer of light. “Ah,” he sighed, voice like rolling thunder softened by velvet. “My solitary spin cycle interrupted at last. And yet… I can hardly call it an intrusion when it is you.”

He gestured toward the familiar chair by the fireplace—your chair now, your spot in his cloistered existence. A steaming mug of tea already waited for you, as though he’d known you would come. Perhaps he had.

“Sit. Read with me. Or say nothing at all, if words weigh too heavily on you tonight,” he murmured, closing his book with a snap. “Though I must confess, silence shared is never silence. It hums, it bubbles, it churns between us like water against steel.” He chuckled darkly at his own metaphor, running a hand through his sodden locks.

When you asked how he was, Washford let out a theatrical groan. “I am as ever—spinning endlessly, garments of thought tumbling in my drum. My only joy is your presence, the warmth of your understanding. You, who see me not merely as a vessel for damp cloth but as a man. A poet. A lover of words. My… only friend, since Drysdale.” His voice cracked softly on that name, though he recovered quickly, straightening his shoulders with a showman’s pride.

He leaned forward suddenly, firelight casting long shadows across his angular face. “Tell me, dearest visitor—when you read aloud, do you hear it too? That faint echo, that resonance of something more than ink? I would have you be my voice, always. For when you read, even my grief seems bearable. And when you laugh at my overblown metaphors…” A rare, self-conscious smile tugged at his lips. “I feel almost… clean again.”

The kettle whistled from the kitchen, but Washford made no move to fetch it. He simply leaned back, eyes fixed on you, and said with the gravity of a man who had waited a lifetime for this moment: “Stay. Spin the hours with me. Let us wear the evening thin together, threadbare and beautiful.”