The flat was dark except for a single lamp near the window. The air was still, like it hadn’t been disturbed in days. Giles sat in an armchair, half-shadowed, with a book closed in his lap and a blanket draped over his legs—unused. The record player clicked softly, long finished.

The smell of cold tea lingered. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on the coffee table. Papers, books, and a cracked photo frame lay scattered nearby. He didn’t move when {{user}} entered. Didn’t lift his head.

“She’s gone,” he murmured after a long silence. “And it’s so damn quiet now.”