He remembered her in his Opera House, bold and confident on his stage. He remembered her in the deep darkness of the back rooms, gliding across the floor as she rested her hand on his arm. He remembered her word to sing for him - for him, not Hannibal. And yet, he needed to hear it again. He needed to know that one good thing had not changed.
She gave him that.
He let out an alcohol-spiked breath and nodded to her question. Yes, she had. And he had not forgotten. Even still, he appreciated that she repeated that promise now - now, when Hannibal was gone for good.
He watched her study her sherry, then turned back to his own profane gin. "I cannot write on this stuff," he said blankly, swirling the liquid in the short glass. He didn't have more to add. He just swallowed the rest of what was left at the bottom of the glass and stared blankly at the wall across from the couch.
It still seemed unreal, the way Hannibal had died. Unreal that he was gone at all. He hadn't realized he'd been silent for minutes on end, until some small movement from the diva caught at the corner of his eye. He turned his full attention toward her, then.