"My mother liked to read the most. It was always something else. Poetry one night, something from a storybook the next." Only now does she note that his cup is still half-full, even though he has already ordered another. Somehow, that makes the subject less taxing: however strange the circumstances, he doesn't seem to be looking for a quick escape. "It makes it feel like something sacred now, no matter the subject. Even the dark things."

Perhaps especially those, because she cannot imagine her mother as a shining ray of golden sunlight, if she managed to capture her father's heart.

She smiles, not apologetic. "Maybe that is what got me so curious, when I saw you write."