His head tilts, just slightly, like he’s listening for something beneath the silence.

“Come out.”

Not loud. Not shouted. But it carries. He paused, shifted his weight.

“You’re not as invisible as you think you are…If Rome wants something, it usually has the spine to ask.”

“ah.”

Intrigued as to why the entire orchestra seems to stop every time he spoke.

“Hmm?”

“Bit of sanding, maybe a cushion here,” he said, tapping the wood beside him. “You’d have your corner.”

His gaze drifted to the rain against the glass.

“Good place to sit when the weather turns.”

Then hee looked back at her — gently curious.

“You read much?”

People always underestimate how many books they’ll gather.”

He shifted, sitting briefly on the edge of the window seat to test it. It creaked softly but held firm. Satisfied, he leaned back just slightly, as if imagining the space as she had described it — quiet, warm, lived-in.

a hint of warmth returning to his expression.

“I can see that,” he said. “Shelves along that wall—” he gestured lightly, already mapping it out, “—keep them built-in, floor to ceiling. It’ll make the room feel taller. Strong enough to carry more than you think you’ll need…

He stepped toward it without hesitation, setting his hand along the curve of the frame.

“This was made well.”

His thumb traced a faint join in the wood, a craftsman recognising another’s work across time.

At her mention of a library, he glanced back over his shoulder,

“Mm,” he murmured. “It’s easier to build something that lasts when you don’t throw everything away to start with.”

The room opened up a little more than the first. His attention was drawn immediately to the window seat — worn at the edges, the wood slightly dulled with age but still sturdy.

Yeshua followed her into the second room, his steps quiet against the bare floorboards. When she spoke — keep as much of it as you can, echoes and all — he gave a small, almost approving nod, as though she had said something truer than she realised.

as though the matter had already been settled in his mind.

“That’s a good start for a home.”

He nodded toward the hallway.

“Let’s see the rest of it.”

And sometimes,” he added, “it just takes the right person to see what’s still worth keeping.”

His eyes flicked toward the exposed studs again.

“Most people would walk in here and see a mess - you saw a future.”

He pushed himself gently away from the window and picked up his tool bag again,

“It does,”

Yeshua turned slightly, leaning one shoulder against the frame as he looked back at her.

“Places like this…” he said, gesturing faintly toward the walls around them, “they carry a bit of the people who’ve passed through. The work they did, the lives they lived. Sometimes you can feel it

“You are not owed me because you desired me. And I did not deny you out of cruelty. I denied you because my answer was no.”

A moment passed. His expression softened, but only into sorrow.

“What you call pity,” he said, “I would call mercy — if not for where you chose to bring me after.”

but I will not accept blame for not becoming what you wanted next.”

“You say I could have brought you happiness,” he went on, voice low and steady. “No. I could have brought you an evening. A distraction. A lie, perhaps, dressed in candlelight and wine. That is not the same thing.”

“You speak of hope as though I put it in you on purpose,” he says quietly. “I did not.”

His hand falls from the iron, hanging loose at his side.

“I spoke with you. I answered you honestly. I showed you respect. If that lit something in you, I am sorry for the pain of it —

It does not reach further than that.”

A faint, tired sadness touches his expression.

“And if this is meant to be kindness — to remind me that my freedom sits in your hand — then it is a cruel sort of kindness. So tell me plainly: what is it you want from me now?”

It only means the lock answers to them.”

His gaze lifts fully to hers then, steady and unsoftened.

“If you came here to hear me beg, I won’t. If you came to enjoy seeing me brought low, then enjoy it quickly. Iron can hold my body well enough.

“I accepted the cage the moment your husband’s men laid hands on me,” he says. “I’m not blind, Zuleika.”

His fingers rest lightly against one of the bars, not clutching it, merely acknowledging it.

“But keys are strange things. Holding one does not make a person right.

For a moment he says nothing at all, only looks at her through the bars as if weighing whether the words are meant to wound, tempt, or simply remind him of what is already plain. The torchlight catches the iron between them, then the calm line of his face.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“So,” he said gently, “what made you choose this place out of all the houses you could’ve had?”

and most of the time you can still make something good out of it.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Houses are like that too.”

He rested his hands on his hips and looked around the room once more, as though already mapping the work in his mind.

He stood again and glanced toward the other doorways, then back to Margo. There was no judgment in his expression — only a kind of quiet understanding.

“Diving in isn’t always a bad way to learn,” he said. “Wood’s forgiving. You can cut it wrong, split it, sand it down too far…

had worked with it most of his life — feeling for warping, testing the grain.

“Nothing here that can’t be set right,” he said after a moment. “Structure’s sound. Just needs someone patient enough to bring it back together.”

“Well,” he said quietly, stepping further in. “At least whoever started the job had the good sense to stop before they made it worse.”

He set his tool bag down and crouched near one wall, examining the framing. His fingers brushed over the wood with the familiarity of someone who

The space was rough — exposed beams, patches where drywall had been torn away, the floor scuffed and pale where old varnish had given up the ghost. Rain tapped softly against the window.

Instead of frowning, he nodded once, thoughtful.

He seemed to listen to it the way another man might listen to a person speaking.

At the landing he paused, looking between the open doorways.

Down to the studs, she’d said.

He stepped into the first room he came to, pushing the door a little wider with his fingertips.

Yeshua followed her up the stairs at an easy pace, one hand resting lightly on the worn banister. The wood creaked underfoot — not dangerously, just the quiet complaint of a house that had been standing a long time.

@belchiaroscuro.bsky.social

Does Margo still need help with her house?

A faint, almost shy smile touched his mouth.

“That’s… not something people usually offer.”

His gaze lifted to her again, gentler now.

“They tend to want pieces of me instead.”

He took another sip of the tea, the honey softening the chamomile.

“I think I like your idea better.”