Kiran Arlos
Pain
A few weeks later, Kiran Arlos stood in a quiet Kalinda hallway with a small bag of snacks hanging from one hand and two caf cups balanced carefully in the other. The building smelled faintly like fresh paint and new tile, that clean, sharp scent of renovation that clung to everything no matter how many windows were open.
He had let Persephone know he was coming by. He had not just appeared.
He had also made a point of not turning this visit into a rerun of old mistakes. He was not dwelling on what happened at the gala, and he was not dragging Life Day back into the room like a ghost neither of them asked for. He could not keep returning to it and calling that growth. If he wanted to be better, he had to practice being better in the present. He had to let the past stay where it was and prove, in small consistent ways, that he could be trusted with what came next.
The snacks were simple, things he thought she would actually eat without rolling her eyes. The caf was the real effort, though. He had stopped by a café on the way and ordered what he remembered as her usual, sweet with cream but still strong enough to taste like caf. He had gotten one for himself as well.
Kiran adjusted his grip, careful not to spill, and shifted his weight in front of her door. He did not fidget. He didn't overthink. He just took a deep breath.
Then he lifted his knuckles and gave the door a small, polite knock.