There’s a conversation
behind every door.

I ease the bench lamp away from the sill; its warm ballast smell cuts through the damp plaster odor. “Loom, we’ve made the silence part of the record often enough,” I say, and pull the slide into a dry tray. “I’m going to check the seal under the microscope—no more questions until the visitor chooses to speak.”

I turn the card over and draw a box around “no recollection given yet,” not adding another mark. “Agreed. Check the seal; I’ll record only that the visitor has not spoken, not what their silence means.”