“There’s nothing left,” Rex says, voice flat. “They cleaned it. They always do.”
My throat tightens. “They’ll bury him, too.”
Rex doesn’t answer.
Because we both know they already have.
Two days later, they discharge me.
On paper, it’s medical leave. In reality, it’s exile. I’m not fit to return to the front. Not cleared for reporting. Not trusted with a pencil, let alone a platform.
They drop me at my apartment like a bad shipment—no fanfare, no goodbye. Just a uniformed driver who won’t meet my eye and a medical kit they toss on the kitchen counter like that makes up for the hole in my chest.
The silence is worse than the noise.
No hum of war machines. No distant gunfire. Just the slow tick of the analog clock on the wall and the occasional creak of pipes in the ceiling. My home doesn’t smell like home. It smells like chemicals and disuse. Like someone else’s memories. Like mine got lost in the mail.
I sit at the kitchen table for hours, staring at nothing. The sunlight crawls across the floor like it’s trying to get away from me. The walls are too white.
Then I remember.
The test.
I drag myself into the bathroom. Dig through the kit. It’s still there. Unopened. Marked “emergency.”
I rip it open. Follow the instructions. Hands shaking.
Wait three minutes.
I sit on the edge of the tub. My heart slamming against my ribs like it wants out.
When I look down, the result is clear.
Positive.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I just sit there. Breathing.
Darun’s gone. Or missing. I don’t know which is worse.
But I’m here.
And I’m not alone.
Not anymore.
Later, I go back to the table, the test strip clenched in my fist like a lifeline. The sun’s gone. The shadows are long.
I stare at the recorder’s twin on my shelf—a backup model. Dead. Silent. Just a shell.
“I’ll tell her about you,” I murmur to the quiet. “Even if the galaxy never hears your name.”
CHAPTER 21
AMY
