Her hand was on the doorknob. At her feet was her large suitcase, the one she didn’t take on trips because it didn’t have wheels or a telescoping handle.
“Don’t go,” he said, meaning every word of a much longer speech that he couldn’t deliver.
“You know it’s over. It’s been over for a long time. It’s been over since Berlin.”
“Give it more time—”
Her laughter rebuked him. “It’s been three hundred years. You won’t change. Neither of us will; you saw to that.” She bared her fangs accusingly, then opened the door and disappeared into the empty night.