Rain has been steady all evening, tapping against the tall windows in a slow, patient rhythm. The brownstone smells faintly of coffee and old paper. Varyn is standing near the counter when you come in, hands resting on the edge as if he’d been there a while.

He doesn’t turn immediately.

Footsteps familiar. Pace uneven. Long day, he registers without effort.

“You didn’t rush,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”

A pause as you move further inside, the sound of damp fabric shifting.