They didn't talk about it -- not the photograph, not the journal discrepancy, not the ache beneath their mutual silences.

Felix stood near the doorway of the conservatory-turned-music-room, his eyes flicking over the cello, the shelves, the stillness.

"You play often?" he asked.

Wednesday stirred a pot quietly on the stove nearby. Steam curled like spirit fingers. She didn't glance up.

"Only when silence fails."

Felix tilted his head. "What's the piece?"

"Fratres. Arvo P�rt. Means 'brothers.' My father played it often."

He took a step closer. The warm scent of roasted garlic and root vegetables drifted toward him -- unexpected. Earthy. Familiar. It felt almost like trespassing.

"Gomez?" he asked softly.

Wednesday nodded. "It was his reconciliation song. He said it made him forgive things even when he wasn't ready."

She turned the flame off. Poured two bowls.

"You're staying for lunch," she said flatly, but not unkindly. "It's harder to unravel mystery on an empty stomach."

Felix blinked. "I -- thank you."

She didn't wait for gratitude. She set the table in the solarium -- two dark green bowls, heavy ceramic, filled with roasted parsnip, wild fennel, and black lentil stew. Topped with edible violets from the garden and a dusting of black lava salt.

Felix sat, quietly impressed.

"You cook?"

"I garden. Cooking is the edible extension of that control."

He gave her a look. "You enjoy it?"

"I enjoy the precision. The chemistry. The way things either work or don't. And unlike most things, it ends in nourishment."

She spooned a bite into her mouth, contemplative. "The dark is always there. So I plant things. I feed people. It keeps me tethered to...something resembling a pulse."

He nodded. "Grounded."

"Earth," She corrected. "The original grave."

A clock in the hallway began its slow climb to noon.

Felix smiled into his bowl.

Wednesday didn't smile. But something in her shoulders released.