Her eyes drift past me toward the far end of the corridor like she’s considering the possibility of simply walking away again.
I step forward slightly.
“Tilda.”
She closes her eyes.
The silence that follows feels enormous.
Then she says very quietly, “Yes.”
The word barely makes a sound.
But it still hits me like a freight train.
For several seconds I just stand there staring at her while my brain tries to reorganize itself around the fact that the suspicion that has been gnawing at me for days is no longer a suspicion.
It’s real.
Jesse.
The kid with the golden eyes and the red scales and the unsettling habit of studying people like he’s quietly deciding whether they’re trustworthy.
My son.
I laugh once.
Not because anything is funny.
More because my brain doesn’t know what else to do with the sudden pressure in my chest.
“Well,” I say slowly. “That’s… direct.”
Tilda doesn’t look relieved.
If anything she looks like she’s bracing for impact.
“I wasn’t planning to tell you here,” she says quietly.
“Where were you planning to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
That answer lands harder than the first one.
“Right,” I say softly.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The corridor lights buzz faintly overhead.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the floor while my thoughts scramble to catch up with reality.
“You left,” I say finally.
“Yes.”
“You disappeared without a word.”
