He blinked against the pitch black. He had barely noticed the withering of light or the passing of time. His eyes felt dry as he strained hard and tried to make out the edges of the room. He smoothed his fingers over the starched hotel sheets still tucked firmly beneath him as his body lay out on the bed. As he rolled his head, he let it drop gently to the right, fixing his gaze on the crack of light escaping from beneath the door. He was waiting. It had been 28 hours since he slipped the note with his scrawled hand writing under the door and 28 hours of waiting for that piece of paper to return with an answer. The light fractured ever so slightly and wisp of wind carried a slip of paper under the door and into the darkness of the room. He flew up from the bed, scrambling and clawing over the paper before composing himself, taking a breath. He unfolded the piece of paper. Just one small word, scrawled in unmistakable cursive joy – ‘Yes.’