Helen crossed the courtyard toward him alone. Up close, she could see his eyes were red and deep-set, kind in a way that was hard to fake. His hands had a faint tremor. She held up one finger—wait—then gestured toward the east garden, the stone bench, the old roses, away from the guests. He nodded and followed without a word.
They reached the garden bench, gold afternoon light settling between the old hedgerows. Helen sat. The stranger stood. He said, “I know I have no right to be here. I’ve known that since I pulled into the car park this morning and sat in my car for two hours.” He paused. “I nearly left four times. My name is Owen.”