The monotony of his day had not yet ceased. It was well into the night when his steady march up the stairs guided him to his little escape.

The air, which usually at this hour was quite settled, seemed to have been recently disturbed. A slight movement behind the young lady's door pricked his senses. Holding his own he listened for breath and heard none. Thinking his mind had abandoned him, he quickly dismissed the notion and retreated to his room.

Inside, everything seemed in its place, he was a particular man in that respect. But a small white envelope lay lost on the floor. It was not the broken seal that piqued his interest, he was well used to his letters being tampered and inspected. But what could have caused it to find its home on the ground?

His eyes scanned the room again with trained precision, only now noticing tiny differences.

His letter on the ground, the corner of the rug turned up, curtains ruffled, clothes moved, bed laid on.

Werner rose to his feet and tried to piece together his thoughts. Surely the elderly gentlemen would have no cause to enter here. But the young woman…

He smiled a little, almost warmed to the notion of her hands about his things.

Returning the letter to his desk he curiously followed a trail of movement, finally ending at his bed.

The sheets held a frame that was not his own, the remnants were small and fragile.

His hand brushed the shape, trying to follow the feminine lines that hung to the fabric. His mind alive at the thought of gently caressing her as she lay beside him.

Knowing he must destroy the shadow she left, he lifted the pillow to his face. Her powdery scent danced at his senses, almost intoxicating in its nature. He breathed it in deeply, desperate to save every last piece of it.

For once he went to bed gladly, though the deprivation of her was only heightened as her presence lingered. Despite this, the idea of her laying on this bed made him think a small victory had been won. He had not set out to win her heart but was irrevocably losing control of his own.

Perhaps the silent war between them would not be won with words, but rather with subtle deeds of the heart.