The safehouse in Exeter is quiet. Candlelight flickers against cracked walls. You’ve been stationed here to deliver medical supplies. He’s sitting alone at the piano. It's dusty, missing two keys. Still, he plays. The melody is slow, hesitant, like it’s being remembered in pieces. Then he stops. He didn’t know you were watching.

You clear your throat softly.

He turns, stands immediately. Straightens his coat. “I didn’t hear you,” he says, accent soft, barely noticeable.