Embers crawling through black fibers, flecks of light dribbling through the rack of logs below. The marks in his face were all laid in by time or by violence, remnant displeasure buttoned down beneath a bristle at his chops.

There’s the scab to gum back into its socket, fresh blood under his nails to scrape out into the meat of his palm.

The longer Silas is kept here in silence, the easier it is for him to leave without leaving, evidence of raw upset baked out of hunched shoulders and curled hands like the damp from his slow-burning shirt. What remains is a feeling that is in itself familiar, buzzy, cold in his gut.

He glances to Ellis and back down again, whatever response turned over, measured, and abandoned in that space.

Maybe this is self-reflection. Anything is possible in fiction.