Someone once said that nighttime was a good time for thinking and solitude. Yvonne quite agreed.
Night naturally shut out disturbances from the outside world, stripping away tangled thoughts and bringing the mind closer to a clean, primal state, making it easier to focus on what lay before her.
Strangely enough, it felt nice to be temporarily away from Kraft. Of course, that wasn't because there was anything wrong with him. On the contrary, he had always shown her considerable concern and even indulgence.
As a doctor, a professor, and a participant in certain matters unknown to most, he had to appear in three or more places at once, juggling multiple identities and the responsibilities that came with them. It was hard to imagine anyone still being able to care about other people's thoughts and put themselves in their shoes.
That was undoubtedly a good thing, a very good thing, but it was also rather weighty. Depending on one's perspective and sensitivity, it could be interpreted as closeness, distance, respect, expectations, or even a kind of pressure.
Yet this didn't seem to be purely psychological. Yvonne genuinely felt a certain pressure, especially when Kraft was focused. It was like stepping into an irregular pool centered on him, where something thicker than a breeze pressed evenly against her without touching her skin.
Judging by other people's reactions, this sensation was probably unique to her, and not entirely real, more like looking at an extremely lifelike painting, reading a passage with exceptionally vivid and precise details, or receiving secondhand information conveyed with uncanny realism.
Along with it came a faint, incessant murmur, repeating syllables behind her ear that might have held some meaning.
Sometimes she felt she understood something, but when she tried to think it over, it vanished without a trace,