He clutches the scrap of paper in his hand. Her address. The streets are empty as he makes his way to her door. He finds her house.

What the hell am I doing? He sits on the wall; the street lamp is flickering above. He has no idea what he will say to her, but he is certain she will shut the door in his face. It becomes much colder; he wraps his coat around his chest more. He looks up towards the sky and sighs, his breath spirals above.

Now or never.

Walking to her front door he feels his legs weaken, pulse quicken and hands sweat.

He knocks on her door.

There is pause; to him it lasted for centuries.

The door opens, there she is standing there. They stare.

"Zubin?"

"Jess."