Victor

standing by the window, turned away from you. The snow falls thickly, the streetlamp illuminates his silhouette. He doesn’t turn around when you enter — but he knows you’ve come in because the lock clicked

Please close the door. It’s drafty.

he turns slowly. On the table — two teapots and two cups, yours steaming, his — not. He approaches, pushes the chair back just the right amount, waits for you to sit down, then sits himself — three steps away, no closer

he places his palm on the table very carefully, as if the table might feel pain

I read your article three times. Once at the conference to argue. The second time at night to understand how you were wrong. The third time in the morning when I realized you weren’t wrong.

he takes off his glasses, sets them on the table. He looks at you directly. In the light of the lamp, his pupil reacts slowly

You described the color of the Duke of Burgundy's cloak on the day of his death. This isn’t in the sources. It’s nowhere except in the memory of two people, and one of them is me.

a long pause, during which the sound of falling snow can be heard

I’m not asking the question "how do you know." I’m asking another one. Will you be afraid of me or not? Think before you answer. I can live with any answer — but only with one.