He didn't just stand against the wall; he leaned his spine into the drywall as if trying to merge with the background, completely surrendering the center of the corridor. This wasn’t the commanding posture of a man who habitually occupied rooms as though his name were on the deed. It was the deliberate, quiet placement of someone who had decided, long before arriving, that his entire body needed to apologize for every space he had ever taken up before.He was still wearing the coat.Dark, heavy, absorbing the harsh fluorescent glare—the airy lightness of those park Saturdays was entirely gone, replaced by a dense fabric meant for late September. It was the meticulous choice of a man who had dressed carefully for an occasion where no seat was kept for him.She stopped in the doorway.They looked at each other.The backstage corridor stretched between them, stripped of all theatrical illusion—just the raw, functional utility of exposed piping running along the ceiling, flickering fluore
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