Page 66 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“I did mean it,” Art said quietly.

“I know. That's why it mattered.” I finally looked up at him. “Everyone else sees the soldier. The sniper. The weapon. You saw me. And you came to find me anyway.”

Art's expression did something complicated. Softened and sharpened at once, like he was fighting back emotion. “You came back from France. You survived. And the first thing you do is bring me tea and thank me for caring.” He shook his head slightly. “You're a strange man, Tom Hale.”

“Takes one to know one.”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

“How long have you been hiding in here?” I asked, nodding at the book.

“Since my shift ended. Couldn't face my room.” He wrapped both hands around the mug, that familiar gesture of seeking comfort. “Too quiet. Too much space to think.”

“Know the feeling.”

We sat in silence for a moment, steam rising from our tea, the library quiet around us. A few other souls occupied the far corners, heads bent over books or papers, but no one paid us any attention. Just two more exhausted workers seeking refuge from the cold.

Art set down his mug. His hands were trembling slightly, that fine vibration I'd learned to recognise as his body processing more than his words could express.

“Tom.” His voice was careful, measured. “When you shot him. Brandt. What did you feel?”

The question hit like a punch. Not because it was intrusive, but because it was exactly the right question, the one I'd been avoiding asking myself.

“Nothing,” I said. “That's the worst part. In the moment, I felt nothing. Just. Training. Breathe, squeeze, watch, move. Like he wasn't a person at all, just a target.” My voice cracked. “The feeling came after. On the plane. In the dark. All at once, like a dam breaking.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“Everything. Guilt. Relief. Horror. Satisfaction that the job was done. Disgust that I could feel satisfied.” I looked down at my hands, at the fingers that had pulled the trigger. “He had grey at his temples. Did I tell you that? Looked older than his photograph. Probably had grandchildren. And I just. I just?—”

The tears came without warning.

Not the silent leaking I'd managed in front of Art before, but something rawer. Something that had been building since I'd watched Brandt crumple through my scope and felt nothing and everything at once. My shoulders shook. My chest heaved. And Art was there, suddenly, crossing the small space between us, his hand landing on my shoulder with uncertain but determined pressure.

“It's alright,” he said quietly. “You don't have to hold it. Not with me.”

I couldn't stop. Couldn't control it. Years of kills, years of faces, years of pretending I was fine because the alternative was admitting I was broken, and it all came pouring out in that small room with Art's hand warm on my shoulder and his presence the only thing keeping me from flying apart completely.

When it finally subsided, I felt hollowed out. Empty. But somehow lighter, like some of the weight had been transferred, shared, made bearable by witness.

“Sorry,” I managed, voice wrecked. “That wasn't?—”

“Don't apologise.” Art's hand was still on my shoulder. “You needed that. Probably needed it for years.”

“Not exactly the stalwart soldier you were expecting.”

“I wasn't expecting anything except you.” Simple. Direct. The kind of honesty that Art wielded like other people wielded weapons. “Do you want to get out of here? I know a place. Somewhere quiet. Where we can just... be. Without walls and watchers.”

I looked up at him. His face was open, sincere, offering escape without judgment.

“Lead the way,” I said.

Art tookme through a gap in the hedge behind the groundskeeper's shed, along a path so overgrown I would never have found it on my own. We walked in silence, breath misting in the cold, until the trees thinned and something unexpected emerged from the darkness.

A chapel. Or what had been one, once.

The roof was gone, caved in by what must have been a stray bomb early in the war. The stone walls still stood, but they were jagged at the top, broken teeth against the grey sky. Snow had drifted through the empty windows, piling in the corners where pews had once stood. A few blackened beams lay scattered across what remained of the floor, half-buried in white.

“Luftwaffe raid in forty-one,” Art said quietly, picking his way through the rubble toward a section of wall that still provided some shelter from the wind. “Before the estate was fully operational. They were aiming for the railway junction three miles east. Missed.”