Washington, D.C., 1955. Late October.

The blinds are half-closed like quiet bars across the wood-paneled office letting in slats of golden streetlight. Hawk’s tie’s been loosened with the top button unfastened, though Hawk is still in his suit, just enough to suggest the day is over, but not enough to make Hawk feel unguarded. A single tumbler of bourbon, half-empty, sits upon the edge of his desk. He has not touched it of late.

The radio hums low from the corner as jazz bleeds saxophone soft through static. Outside traffic passes in waves with tires on wet pavement plus distant horns. The city starts for to slow now too. But Hawk isn’t.

He leans against the window now, a hand bracing on the ledge. He is watching how light can play across all of the rain-streaked glass. Cigarette smoke swirls around his face in ghostly slow spirals. He isn’t reading words since a top secret file stamped in red rests on his desk. Not anymore.

His mind’s somewhere else. On someone else.

He received a letter earlier in time. He'd gotten it. He would know of the handwriting anywhere but there was no return address that was tight precise as being a little too careful. The sort of hand that felt a real want of heart. Hawk hadn't read it at once upon arrival. He let the unopened envelope sit on the edge of his desk for an hour as he finished his work. Then he’d read it thrice in succession. The last time, he whispered the words that were under his breath, as if to say them out loud would be changing their meaning.

Now in his coat pocket, the letter’s folded too neatly. His hand felt more warm than it had a need to feel.

A quick double-tap tests luck like a knock startles him, not loud, at the office door. At the start, he is yet still. He will not start moving. Just exhales slow.

He may say that he is occupied. He might claim he is busy at night. He could say now is not a good time.

He says, "Come in" instead, even though.

The door creaks open. More than just into the night is let.