Egon stood motionless by the balcony railing for minutes, long after the roar of the rotors had faded.
The suite’s luxury now seemed colder, emptier. The remains of breakfast lay forgotten on the tray.
My fingers groped for Sofia’s coin; its familiar weight suddenly felt cold against my skin.

The silence stretched out, filled with unspoken questions and the fleeting scent of rosemary that lingered in my memory.
Finally, I moved. I reached into the pocket of my worn jeans and pulled out the brittle, folded letter—the one that had started it all.

My grandmother’s careful handwriting, faded ink whispering of doom. My hand trembled slightly as I held it out to Egon,
who had his back to me. He turned slowly; his gaze fell immediately upon the paper.
Without a word, he took it, his fingertips brushing against mine. A strange, electric jolt shot through me.
I couldn't yet make sense of the sensation.

Slowly and thoughtfully, we walked back into the penthouse’s living area.
Egon stood by the simple steel table and laid the letter flat beside the two other gleaming coins.
He took out a pair of reading glasses—an unexpected touch of vulnerability—and sat down.

The silence deepened as he read; his expression shifted from intense concentration to fleeting signs of grim realization,
and finally to deep, weary sorrow. His finger traced a specific line:
“…if you recognize yourself in the picture of the red-haired woman, you are in danger.
The image could represent your future… You, roasted, served as a feast…”

My grandmother’s letter rustled beneath Egon’s fingers as he tapped that strange
phrase: “To bear children who renounce cannibalism and live in safety with
a clear conscience.” Egon looked at me. His gaze was suddenly filled with desire.
The air in the penthouse suddenly felt heavy and oppressive.

I lost myself in thought. My breath caught in my throat. Children? Our children?
What had made me think of that? I
remembered his hand holding mine in the Jeep, and the predatory gleam in his eyes at the tavern.
And now, here, he was hinting… that he… A flush rose from the
back of my neck to my face—hot and tinged with shame.

My thoughts raced: should I get to know Egon better? My first lover? Oh God, the man is almost twice my age!
I felt a wave of heat. This man was certainly dominant, mysterious. Exciting? Arousing?
That’s how it had been at the tavern.

Egon’s gaze drifted lower, focusing on the next crucial line: “…or look for Bexter’s book.”
I was briefly startled, snapped out of my thoughts. His brow furrowed, deep lines appearing.
He read it again in a whisper, his lips shaping the unfamiliar words. “Bexter’s book?” The name sounded rough, foreign on his tongue.

He looked up; his dark eyes met mine, filled with sudden, profound dismay.
“No,” he said firmly—his voice hard and final against the distant wind whistling outside against the tinted glass.
“Bexter’s book… it won’t be available for another decade.” The gravity of his statement stifled a fragile spark
of hope within me—one I hadn’t even realized I was clinging to.

“Richard Bexter’s book is a repository of knowledge, lost in a secret library,
but I have been searching for it for a long time,” Egon added.