“…byw…”

But Llyr was already standing. Not from courage—from curiosity, that older and more dangerous twin. The napkin was damp in his palm. The words seemed to rearrange themselves as he looked: danlwd – downlood? downward? fyltrshkn – filter shaking? filter shaken? A filter shaken twice, then a bray at windows.

The window began to weep. Not condensation—tears, black and slow.

And in the corner booth, a long grey coat, draped over nothing, still faintly warm.