“I help people, but I don't fix anything. The Time Exchange still exists. Children still die because their families can't pay for healing. I ease symptoms while the disease spreads.”
“Pain shared is not wasted,” Cael said quietly. “Every moment of suffering you've absorbed has mattered to someone. You've given them peace when the world offered only cruelty.”
There was an ache in his voice that suggested he understood carrying impossible burdens alone.
“You think so?”
“I know so. You may not be able to change the systems that create suffering, but you transform how that suffering is experienced. That matters.”
The words settled into Damian's chest like warmth. When was the last time someone had validated not just his work, but his doubts about it?
Emboldened by Cael's compassion, Damian found himself reaching toward where he sensed Cael's presence. His hand moved slowly, stopping just short of contact.
“I think I could fall for you,” he whispered, the words slipping out before caution could stop them. “If I weren't afraid you'd take me with you when you leave.”
Silence fell, heavy with the realization they'd crossed a threshold neither could return from.
“I don't know if I'm capable of leaving you anymore,” Cael replied, barely audible. “The thought feels like contemplating my own dissolution.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we're in uncharted waters. It means you've become more important to me than cosmic duty, which should be impossible.”
“But it's not impossible.”
“No. Apparently it's not.”
Needing something tangible to mark their connection, Damian retrieved a small piece of apple wood from his supply drawer and reached for his carving knife.
“I want to make you something,” Damian said, fingers tracing patterns into the soft wood. “Not because you need it to find me—you’ve always known where I am. But sometimes… it helps to have something to hold onto. A reminder that you’re not alone in this world.”
He worked by touch, each cut deliberate, each curve meaningful in ways he couldn’t articulate but understood instinctively.
“What are you making?” Cael asked quietly.
“I’ll know when it’s finished.”
When he finally set down the knife, he held a small talisman carved in interlocked spirals. The pattern suggested both binding and freedom, connection that enhanced rather than constrained.
“Here,” Damian said, offering the finished piece. “Just a reminder that someone in this realm thinks about you when you’re gone.”
Cael accepted the talisman with reverence. “It’s warm. From your hands, from the work. I can feel the care you put into making it.”
“Good. That was the idea.”
They sat in comfortable silence afterward, but outside the clinic, Damian began to notice wrongness in the usual evening sounds. Birds calling in patterns that sounded backward. A distant clock tolling thirteen instead of twelve.
“Something's different,” he said.
“The world is noticing what we're doing,” Cael said, reluctance creeping into his voice. “The longer I stay in physical form, the more unstable things become.”
“Then don't go,” Damian said immediately. “Let the world adapt to us for once.”
“Damian...”
“I'm serious. You said you don't know if you can leave me anymore. So don't. Stay.”
“The cosmic consequences could be severe. Not just for me, but for you. For everyone in the city.”
