Alan and Myra walked out of the hotel, Alan hauling their compact suitcases in one hand. The strained silence between them was thick, weighing down like a palpable tension as they moved through the hotel's grand, opulent lobby. Both were lost in their own thoughts: Alan was consumed by worry, unease, and anger at himself, while Myra was worried, regretful, and hopeful.
Alan's face was drawn and tight, his jaw clenched as he wheeled their suitcases, his eyes flicking down to the polished floor as though the answers might be hidden in the tiles. A fog of guilt and confusion clouded his mind, each memory slipping further away the harder he tried to grasp it. Beside him, Myra walked stiffly, her expression guarded. Beneath her controlled demeanor, a storm of anger and triumph twisted together, though she kept her features schooled into a look of quiet suffering.
