The tiffin boxes were simple things, stainless steel with sturdy clasps, the kind that Maria used for meals that were meant to be carried somewhere beyond the walls of the penthouse. They had a certain modesty to them, a quiet practicality that spoke of packed lunches and careful hands and the particular love of someone who understood that food was not merely sustenance but a message. I was thinking of you. I noticed you did not eat. I made something warm.
Silas held one out toward Salvar, who was still seated in the swing, his fingers still wrapped around the ropes as though he expected another assault at any moment. His knuckles were pale against the weathered fibers. His fractured hand, bound in its pale cast, rested awkwardly against the chain.
"What about we have lunch?" Silas asked again, his voice even and unhurried. He did not press the tiffin forward. He simply held it there, an offering suspended in the space between them.
