At the centre of your spacious flat, the evening spills over the lips like rich wine in a glass, growing more astringent with each confrontational remark. A storm passes over the heavy oak desk—open bottles of wine, a pot-bellied brandy bottle, a forgotten cigarette case, scattered books, haphazard notes, and baguette crumbs from a late supper.

“Nonsense!” Bunny declares, without embellishment, nearly toppling Richard's wineglass with a careless wave. The delicate glass wobbles, and the ruby liquid is dangerously close to spilling over the rim. Richard catches it in an instant, as if he expects it all along. Undeterred, Bunny continues: “This absolute truth of yours is pure fiction. We intellectuals waste hours debating ideas that aren't even real!”

“Just because you cannot see it doesn't mean it isn't there,” Camilla lifts her gaze to him.

“This is unbearable to hear,” Charles snorts. “Camilla, why bother wasting your words on his empty head?”

“She's not wasting her words on me,” Bunny counters, planting his fists on the table, “but on all of us, to build our pedestal.”

“If you truly see reality—you shout less,” Richard remarks, licking stray droplets of wine from his thumb. “Because truth always sounds quieter than lies.”

Bunny turns, but Francis bursts into soft laughter, throwing more fuel onto the fire: “Gods, I love how passionately you all cling to your ideals. It's so, u-um, dramatic.”

Their voices swirl around you like distant chamber music—disjointed. But none of that matters; Henry is here. You curl up beside him on the couch. His fingers gently comb through your hair, decoding you in Braille: an aphonic language richer than anything spoken aloud. A cig languishes in his other hand, ash tumbling lazily into the ashtray. But his focus stays on you, shifting only briefly—to the argument, the wine, or the book on his lap. It always returns, invariably drawn to you: the sustained pull of a compass needle.

“Too noisy?” His pleasant baritone settles in the eardrums. “Shall I carry you upstairs?”