Sophie’s POVAres sat at the far end of the long kitchen table. He was still dressed — or dressed again, I couldn't tell which — in dark trousers and a shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his jacket nowhere in sight. In front of him sat a glass of whisky, poured generously, and his hand was wrapped around it in the loose, thoughtless way of someone who wasn't drinking so much as simply needing something to hold.He was looking at the window above the sink. At the rain moving down the glass in slow uneven lines, collecting at the sill, running down. His expression was somewhere far away from this kitchen, from this house, from all of it. For the first time since he had walked into the reading of the will and rearranged everything, he didn't look measured or composed or quietly certain of every single thing.He just looked like a man sitting alone in the dark with his thoughts, which was something I understood completely.He hadn't seen me.The dream flickered at the back of
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