Night

The quiet aches. Even the phone has stopped ringing now; there's only the ticking of the clock and the type, type, type from the study.

He's locked the door. She taps politely, wondering if she'll scream if he doesn't open it. "Roger — "

Type. Pause. Type.

Can this really be them? Can they share duty, secrets, history, but not this? She knows that he has never accepted his emotions, but she'd thought that he could try, for her.

Clang. She stumbles back as the clock strikes. It's seven, somehow, and shadows have come to wrap the useless objects in the hall.