Writers 
It's mid-December and freezing, and Maya's had to bring in extra heaters just to keep the shop warm. But the cold isn't really what's bothering her — it's an unopened letter sitting on her desk. Her landlord is raising her workshop rent by 25%, starting January 1st.
She's staring at her numbers, doing the math, and it's not looking good. Her restoration work is slow and specialized — she deals with private collectors and antique dealers who negotiate hard on price — so to cover a rent hike this big, she'd basically have to take on double the work. And the only way to do that quickly is by taking cheap, rushed, low-quality jobs — exactly the kind of soulless work she started her own studio to get away from.
Julian shows up, in a good mood as usual, bringing pastries and some old historical maps he thought she'd find interesting, showing how a river used to run behind her building centuries ago. He's clearly excited to share it with her.
Maya tries to hide the rent notice by closing her ledger, but Julian — trained to notice details for a living — spots the red "Notice of Adjustment" stamp before she can hide it fully. He gently asks if everything's okay. She brushes it off, calling it "standard business stuff." But Julian does the math in his head almost instantly and points out this isn't a small adjustment — it's nearly £300 more a month, which is a serious financial hit.
Maya, stressed and defensive, says she'll manage — she'll take some cheap commercial jobs re-veneering doors for a hotel renovation. Julian, knowing how much she despises that kind of soulless work, pushes back gently, reminding her she said that exact kind of job was a waste of her skills.
That's when Maya snaps. She tells him that not everyone has the luxury of a stable government job and pension like he does — implying he doesn't understand real financial pressure the way she does.
It's a sharp comment, and it lands hard. Julian doesn't raise his voice or fight back — that's not who he is — but he clearly flinches. Trying to stay calm and helpful, he switches into problem-solving mode: maybe she could dispute the rent increase, apply for a small business grant, or use his access to property records to find leverage against the landlord if the building hasn't been properly maintained.
But to Maya, in the state she's in, his calm, logical suggestions don't feel like support — they feel like he's treating her financial crisis like a research project, something abstract and manageable, because it's not his money or his risk. She tells him flatly that she doesn't need a researcher, she needs to actually work, and that she has pieces to finish.
Julian goes quiet. He looks at the closed ledger, the pastries she never touched, and Maya, who won't even look at him — jaw clenched, eyes locked on her workbench. Without arguing or pushing further, he quietly puts his gloves on, says he'll let her get back to work, and leaves into the snow. No dramatic exit — just a small, sad, ordinary one, the door chime sounding somehow lonelier than usual as he walks out.
Maya is left alone in the cold shop, staring at the now-empty stool where he usually sits.
