Olla Kent’s door stood open.
Her answer remained no.
Felix found her sitting beside a small packed bag. Behind her, the household occupied its usual places. A cup sat on the table. A coat hung from a peg. Someone had repaired the chair more than once and intended to keep doing it.
She’d considered leaving.
That made the conversation harder than explaining a danger she hadn’t understood.
“The notice says the corridor must clear,” Felix said.
“I read it.”
“The intervention may move the foundation.”
