The number makes me go still. Not because it’s high—though it is—but because of the way he says it. Not casual. Not callous. Just… factual. Like those lives are still carried somewhere behind his eyes, cataloged and permanent.
“Was it war?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“That’s not how I lost mine.”
Another pause. This one mine.
“It was a file,” I say eventually. “One corrupted string of Coalition data. Just one.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“She was flagged for reclassification due to ‘non-compliance indicators.’ But she wasn’t political. She wasn’t even loud. Just curious. She asked the wrong question in a logistics report. You know what they did?”
Tatek doesn’t answer. Maybe he already knows.
“They erased her,” I say. “Digitally. No follow-up. No official notification. Just a gap. One day she existed. The next—nothing. Not even a memo.”
I close my eyes.
“She was my sister.”
There’s a sound. So quiet I almost miss it. A change in breath. The faintest shift of weight on the floor.
And then he sits.
Not on the bed. On the floor beside it. Not touching. Not even brushing the edge of the mattress. But close enough that I can hear the subtle stretch of the material across his knees. His movements are so precise. Controlled. It’s like watching a predator settle—not out of danger, but out of respect.
“You do not speak of her in your file,” he says.
“Why would I? She doesn’t exist anymore, remember?”
He exhales through his nose. Almost a sigh.
“That is not an absence,” he says quietly. “That is theft.”
The word shivers through me.
I lift my head slowly, turning to look at him. His gaze is already there—steady, unwavering. And for once, he doesn’t look away.
That alone almost breaks me.
“She used to hum when she thought no one was listening,” I say, surprising myself. “Usually old earth jazz. Real weird stuff, full of brass and off-beat rhythms. Drove me nuts.”
Tatek doesn’t smile, but something about him softens. I can’t explain it. It’s not visual. It’s just… felt.
“She had this laugh,” I go on. “It made you feel like the world hadn’t ended yet. Like it could be okay again.”
I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears slip. Not in front of him. Not yet.
“Now I can’t even prove she was real. No record. No photo. Nothing. Just me, holding the weight of her like a ghost in my ribs.”
A long pause. Then he says: “She is real. Because you remember.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is.”
