She knows he is still inside as soon as she turns her key in the lock—a difference in the quality of the silence, a slight disturbance in the air. She does not see him immediately, as she kicks off her sandals, standing at the doorway in her bare feet. A small sound comes from the little room. She walks over the wooden boards, down the hall, where she pushes open the door. He is standing staring out of the window at the tree.

He turns to her. “I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” His voice is hoarse. There is a small bag at his feet.

She should feel angry, she thinks, but anger is far away.

“You changed things in here,” he says. “You painted.”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice.” He gestures to the plants on the sill, the print on the wall. “It’s funny we never touched it, isn’t it? This room. All that time.”

“I suppose it is.”

Outside there are the sounds of running footsteps, the percussive slap of sneakers on pavement, of children playing in the street.

“How have you been?” says Nathan.

“All right,” she says, and she leans against the wall behind her, sliding slowly down to the floor. She brings her knees towards her, clasps her arms around them. She can feel her breath coming shallowly, in and out. The evening sun is an oblong slice on the carpet between them. “Bad, for a long time. Better now.”

Nathan nods.

“What about you?” she says.

“Han,” he says softly. He takes a small step towards her, but she puts her hand up to stop him.

“No,” she says. “Don’t come any closer.”

And so he stands there, unmoored, in the middle of the floor.

There are many things she wants to say:

How could you do this to me?

How could you ever show your face here again?

But what she finally says is, “How was it?”

“How was what?” he says.

“With Lissa.”

“Han.” His face contracts. “Don’t.”

She puts her head back on the wall and looks at him. The sadness on his face. How is it, after all of it, that she feels so strong, but sitting here, like this, he looks as though he will break? “Tell me,” she says. “I want to know.”

She has been in the fire, all this time—this is how—she has been tempered by the fire.

He turns away. Puts his hand on his bag, lifts it, puts it down, takes his hand away. “It was . . . it felt dangerous,” he says. “And it felt wrong.”

“And that was good?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “In a way.”

“Did she come?”

“What?” He looks wretched.

“You heard me. Did she come?”

“Please,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s my right,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she come?”

“Yes.”

“Was she loud? What noise does she make when she comes?”