“Hey,” he said. “You look good.” Clara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “What are you doing here?” “I heard you’re in remission,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself.” She didn’t answer. He stepped inside uninvited, glancing around the apartment. “You’ve done well for yourself. Place looks nice.”
“It’s mine,” she said. He nodded, eyes tracing the artwork on her walls — her paintings, bright and defiant, nothing like the soft pieces she used to make. “I’ve been… keeping up with things. I wanted to reach out sooner, but, well—” He trailed off. She raised an eyebrow. “But what?”