You are sitting with a couple. The conversation is difficult but navigable. Then something shifts. One partner’s voice climbs; the other’s eyes go pale and far away. The words are about a business trip or a broken agreement. But the charge belongs somewhere else: a child of five waiting by a door that never opened; a rape thirty years ago; a war in which a friend died. The body forgets nothing. This is not an argument. This is time travel.
The Moment the Room Changes
