When I turn, I find Philip holding the frame.
Just staring at it.
At us.
His thumb moves once over the edge of the glass.
I lean back against the counter and wait.
Eventually he lets out a breath.
“I nearly talked myself out of coming six times between London and here.”
That is not what I expected him to say.
I watch him.
He gives a small shake of his head.
“Possibly more. I lost count somewhere around Maidstone.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitches.
Philip notices and huffs a breath that might almost be a laugh.
Then he looks back at the photo.
“I kept thinking Sophie was being dramatic.”
A pause.
“That I was being dramatic.”
He swallows.
“That maybe this”—he lifts the frame slightly— “didn’t mean what I thought it meant.”
I say nothing.
Because if I speak now, I’ll say too much too fast.
Philip’s fingers tighten fractionally.
“So I came because I needed to know whether I had completely lost my mind.”
There it is.
Messier.
Truer.
I push away from the counter.
Take two slow steps towards him.
“You haven’t.”
Philip looks up.
