Clemence understood now the gravity he'd carried—years mapped to hours, to frozen frames. The truth was not dramatic: no sign of foul play beyond a hurried note, no mobster’s calling card. Just the quiet of a man who had chosen to leave and marked the choice with a date that would haunt his family.

She frowned. “Nobody knows endings, not even taxi meters.”

The stranger let out a small sound that might have been relief, might have been grief. “He didn’t disappear,” he said. “He stepped out of frame. He made a choice.”