He falters, expression caught. Then settles. “I wish I could’ve come back sooner.”
I let him say it. I let the weight of that apology hang. I keep silent, sip my coffee. Bitter on my tongue.
He stands up, paces near the windows. Rain spatters. City lights flicker. He raises a hand, touches the glass. Traces a droplet’s path.
I follow his gaze. He murmurs, “So much changed.”
“Yes,” I say, voice soft. “So much.”
He turns. Look at me square. “I need to know what you did. What you built in my absence.”
I sigh. The words I’ve buried rise into my throat. “I survived. I lied. I published truths they tried to bury. I built this life with your ghost in my veins.”
He moves closer. Rain off his coat slides onto the floor. We’re yards apart. I feel that distance acutely. I lean forward. My hand lifts—but I stop it.
He closes his eyes for a fraction. When he opens, his gaze drills into me. “I have nothing left but the echo of what we had.”
I press my palms to my temples. Emotions spool inside me. Anger. Love. Fear. Remorse.
He licks his lips. “You deserve better than shadows.”
I inhale. “I’d rather have truth than comfort.”
He nods hard. The glass in his hand trembles. He swallows.
We stand close now. The space between us is small. The rain muffled the walls.
He says, “I’m here, Amy. I came home.”
My breath catches so hard it stabs. I want to collapse into him. I want to hold him and never let go.
But I swallow the impulse. I move forward. Reach for his hand. He doesn’t pull away. My fingers wrap around his wrist.
“You’re home,” I whisper.
He presses his hand over mine. The heat against my skin burns.
We don’t need more words. We don’t need to name ghosts yet. The night hums around us. The rain outside quiets to a lull.
In that apartment, in that fragile space, two ghosts become something living again.
CHAPTER 29
DARUN
The hotel room is dim when I wake, body a repository of aches and memory. The hum of the HVAC, the distant traffic, the drip of a leaky faucet—a nocturne of reminders that I’m alive, that I returned. I taste stale coffee on my tongue from last night’s attempt to keep wired, a lingering tang of antiseptic and sweat. My limbs feel like metal weighed down in mud, slow, reluctant.
When my holo-comm pings, it’s Amy’s face. She’s in her apartment, half-lit, eyes circling in that unsettling calm she’s mastered. She pauses before speaking.
“Can you come over?” Her voice trembles just a fraction.
It echoes in me. I grip the bed cover, stand. My bones creak. I stretch out joints. Step out into the hallway, feet echoing against the thin carpet. I press the elevator button, feel the emergency tug: every step, every muscle, climbing back from the dead.
By the time I reach the lobby of her apartment, rain slashes the entrance glass in thick sheets. I pull up my coat collar, step inside. The lobby smells of damp wool and old chandeliers. I see her silhouette arriving—coat damp, hair darkened by water. Her outline in the doorway stings.
When she sees me, she hesitates so I step forward.
“Hey,” I say, voice rough.
