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Summary
Every now and then, the polished, courteous image Flins maintained would loosen slightly: he might sink deeper into an armchair in the common room, or leave behind the dry crusts of his bread with surprising fussiness. He talked about himself too, but rarely, and always steered the conversation away before it became too personal. Whenever her questions became a touch too specific, he would smile and somehow wriggle out of answering.
Like a greedy pigeon gathering crumbs from a square, Lauma delighted in every little fragment he let slip. At night, she would take those scraps of memory apart and piece them back together, then swallow the result whole like some private remedy. The dreams grew more vivid each time, like watercolour paper soaked through until the colours bled off the page and stained the table beneath. Eventually, even the borders of the dreams began to blur.
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