She stood there, leaning against the brick of the building, not far from the door. It was dark; the dim pool of the street lamp washed light over her outline. There was a cigarette in her hand, burned down almost to her fingers, leaving a trail of smoke in the air. It had rained recently; the pavement was damp. Likely the building was damp, and the back of her dress as well. But she didn't seem to care.

Her face turned back to him at the movement, at the sound of his voice.

"Why are you here?" Her voice was soft. "Don't give me some answer about how I asked you. We both know if you hadn't wanted to come, you could have vanished. Slipped off to some other country, been some face I saw once at a party, and never again. You came back . . . and that was a choice."