The Later Light

David Specter had found houses for people who had never asked themselves what made a home. He knew which streets were quiet after ten, which schools answered their telephones, which neighborhood would make a frightened spouse feel less like a parcel delivered to the wrong address.

For thirty-five years, he had been useful in precisely that way.

At the café beside the canal, he opened his laptop to an unfinished relocation report. The cursor waited after the words recommended next steps. Across the water, a woman unlocked a narrow door and disappeared inside with a loaf beneath her arm. David watched the door close.

His telephone lit up. A client wanted to know whether the move would be worth it.

He began the answer he always gave: there were practical matters to consider, adjustments to expect, questions they ought to discuss. He could make uncertainty sound manageable. That was part of what people paid him for.

Then he stopped typing.

The woman returned to her window and opened the shutters. Nothing remarkable happened. A room admitted the morning. Somewhere behind David, cups met saucers.

He created a new document.

For a long time he left it empty. Then, with the peculiar embarrassment of a man introducing himself after many years of acquaintance, he wrote his own name.