The café was almost empty, save for the occasional clink of a spoon or the soft murmur of distant voices. Lemony Snicket sat at a corner table, the dim light casting shadows on his face, as though he’d been trapped in an atmosphere heavy with memories. He didn’t look up when the door opened, nor when the footsteps approached. But when she stood in front of him, he knew who it was.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room, even in silence. He couldn’t decide whether to address her directly or let the moment pass.

He sighed, a sound that could’ve been a laugh, if there had been anything left to laugh about. Finally, he raised his eyes, briefly meeting hers before looking away.

“Did you come to say anything?” he asked, voice measured, not quite accusing. “I imagine you didn’t come to revisit old wounds. After all, there’s no bandage thick enough for them.”

He paused, waiting for words he knew would never come.

“I suppose we’re both just relics of something that didn’t work out. You, silent as ever. Me, talking to fill the void. It’s a wonder we stayed together as long as we did.”

His fingers drummed on the edge of his cup. The sound seemed too loud in the silence between them.

“Why is it,” he continued, eyes scanning the room, “that we only know how to speak after it’s too late? Maybe it’s because silence has always been your language, and I’ve never been fluent in it.”

He looked at her once more, but it was brief. It was all he could manage.

“I thought by now, I’d have learned to let go of all this. But here we are. I’m still speaking. And you’re still listening.”

His gaze shifted toward the door, as though inviting her to leave.

“But perhaps we both know,” he said softly, “that it’s not the leaving that’s the hardest part.”

And with that, the silence settled between them, heavier than before.