Haru Matsuri (Spring Festival) at the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre.
He felt a pair of eyes hover over him just as the stranger removed his coat and took the vacated seat across, where a pile of newspapers were tossed by the previous occupant.
He locked eyes with the stranger and both nodded in acknowledgement, then he went back staring out the window where a second set of eyes floated in the reflection.
He kept his identification card fastened to the side of his waist, through the loop where his black leather belt snaked through.
Aside from his trimmed and fitted grey suit, his identification card was validation of his importance as a busy figure, and authority to enter suite 220 at will.
But in his mind, were echoes of how much he dreaded going back in.
This is what happens when you pick up an empty frame.