Not full. But present.
My breathing evens instantly. The hollow ache in my chest seals.
She inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering.
Her head tilts toward my chest before she’s fully awake. Instinct. Not choice. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.
For a suspended second, everything steadies. The house. The air. The pressure.
Her eyes open. Confused. Then focused.
And then I see the fear. Not of me. Of understanding.
“You,” she whispers.
I tighten my hold automatically. “You fainted.”
Her gaze shifts over my shoulder. To the album on the floor. To the photograph face-up on the rug. My thirteen-year-old face staring back at us.
Her breathing spikes. The hum flares in response.
Pain flickers through my sternum.
She feels it too. I can see it in her eyes.
“That’s not—” she begins.
I don’t know what she’s going to say.
Not possible. Not real. Not human?
I lower us both into the armchair before her legs can fail again. She’s still gripping my shirt. Still pressed close. The proximity stabilizes faster this time.
No storm. No wind surge. Just quiet.
Her forehead rests briefly against my collarbone. Her breath evens. Mine follows.
I should pull away.Distance is discipline.
But the moment I try to shift, the ache returns. Sharp. Immediate.
She stiffens too. Like she feels it. Her fingers tighten again. The ache disappears. We both freeze.
There it is.
Synchronization. Not environmental. Biological.
Her eyes lift slowly to mine.
“You didn’t age,” she says. Not accusation. Observation.
I don’t answer.
Her gaze drops to my chest. Then back to the photograph.
“Ninteen sixty-six,” she whispers.
The hum rises faintly. Waiting.
