ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FIVE

They walked back to the room in silence. It was the kind of silence that did not feel hostile or cold. It felt careful. As if one wrong word might tilt everything off balance. Breakfast had been quiet too. He had been polite. She had been composed. They had spoken about the weather, the distance to the next town, the lack of decent coffee. Everything except the one thing neither of them dared touch with their voice.

The kiss sat between them like something alive. Something warm and breathing and pretending to sleep.

When they entered the room, Diana placed her bag on the small table by the window. She kept her movements steady. She forced her breathing to look normal. She picked up the book he had stolen for her and settled on the bed, pretending to read. She understood every word on the page yet she absorbed none of it.

Mikhail sat near the edge of the desk chair. He unpacked his knife kit. The same one he always cleaned with a sense of ritual. Today he touched each tool with too muc