She tries to smile. Her eyes glimmer with surprise, grief, relief, anger—so many shadows layered. “Darun.”
The word is tremor. She lets the door close behind me. The rain’s roar dims in the hallway. The apartment smells like warm coffee, old books, something grown since I’ve been gone—a life built under my absence.
She steps back into the living room. I glance at the windows, the flicker of neon outside, the drip of water from the doorframe. The floor glistens. The air presses damp.
“Come in,” she says. Doesn’t close the distance too fast. Just holds her space. Invitation, vulnerable.
I nod. Cross the threshold. I pause, wanting to absorb her posture, the way light grazes her face, the tremor in her fingers. She moves toward the kitchen. I follow.
She pours coffee in mugs, steam curling upward, lacing with perfumed air. The aroma is strong, dark. I take one, fingers nearly trembling. I bring it to my lips. The heat burns but anchors.
We sit at the table, side by side, but not too close. The silence bristles.
She clears her throat. “I’ve missed you telling me things, explaining things.”
I tilt my head. “I know.”
“You know what someone can become waiting three years alone, building stories, reconstructing half-truths to survive.” Her voice is brittle but sturdy.
I let that land. The mug warms my palms.
Finally I say, “I know the weight.”
She stares at the table. Takes a shaky breath. “I built walls. I told stories. I locked parts of me away. I didn’t trust ghosts.”
I look at her. “I was the biggest ghost you ever knew.”
Her chest juts. She shifts in her seat. “You say that like it’s not real.”
I run a hand over my jaw. The scar stings, touches memory.
We move to the couch. She flips a switch; soft lamp glows. The room shifts under us. Shadows at corners, light on skin. I sit; she perches across.
We talk. At first small. Weather, city, hospital: how the rehab wings smell of cleaning fluid and fear, how the corridors echo with moans and breath, how they measured my strength in decibels—muscle tone, nerve response, balance. She listens, nods, asks gentle questions. She doesn’t flinch when I describe the pain—bone shards, nerve fires, phantom itches.
Then she brings me by the holostation console she’s been tinkering with. The unit still flickers, parts of its windows cracked. She pushes a panel open. I peer in. Copper traces, charred edges, wires that used to hum. My fingers hover above solder, circuitry. She hovers behind me.
I bend. Adjust. Resolder a connection. Short sparks. The hiss of current. The station comes alive. Light flickers. A soft glow in her eyes.
She watches. “You feel that?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “It’s singing.”
That is a moment: steel machine, human flesh, memory intertwined. Our shared purpose woven in electricity.
Later, she brings out a folder—papers, forms. Veteran support, medical claims, housing petitions. I frown at the fine print. She guides me where to sign. I pause at one line. She places a hand over mine. A light touch. Not enough to push, just enough to steady. My heart drums.
I say in a low voice, “You didn’t have to do this.”
She looks at me. “I had to believe you’d come back. I arranged this in secret.” Her eyes flick away. Her throat pulses.
We laugh—soft, cracked—when she glances at a clause asking for “next of kin.” The bureaucracy tastes bitter.
“You know,” I say, “I never liked forms.”
She smirks. “Yeah, but I like you filling them.”
We fall into a brace of memory. I tell her about drifting under planets, remembering voices of wind, phantom voices. She tells me about late nights in the newsroom—forging leads, deleting threats, covering up leaks that might unmask her. Her gaze flicks to a blank wall, the place my picture would be.
