“Garden needs work.”
“Quite a lot.”
She turns the page slowly.
“The kitchen is tiny.”
“Very.”
“That could be nice,” she says.
My breath catches in a way I cannot quite hide.
She glances up and sees it.
“I mean, annoying,” she adds gently. “But nice.”
“Both can be true.”
“Bathroom?”
“Terrible tiles.”
She looks at the photo and winces. “Oh.”
“I did warn you.”
“You undersold it.”
“Out of fear.”
She keeps looking through the brochure. Slower now. Not examining only. Imagining.
I can see the moment it happens. The tiny shift from property to possibility.
“How close to the station?” she asks.
“Five minutes’ walk.”
Then she looks back at the first photo.
For a long moment, she says nothing.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.
“I like that you saw me in it.”
I go still.
She does not look up.
“You saw my life. The station. Amanda. The kids. Nights. All of it.” Her thumb rests on the edge of the paper. “You didn’t ask what I’d give up. You thought about what I’d get to keep.”
“Yes,” I say, because anything more might come out badly.
She looks up then.
Tired. Soft. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with easy things.
