“You are welcome,” I said, and heard the thickness in my own voice.
She studied me for a long moment, as if mapping what she found there—the scaled ridges, the lines where laughter might someday live.
“You don’t look like a monster.”
I smiled, careful and slow. “Neither do you.”
That drew another laugh, lighter this time. The echo of it filled the tunnel.
When evening came, the colony lights dimmed to twilight hues that mimicked sunset. I walked with Lina toward the upper terraces, the air cooling as we climbed.
The world outside the basin had forgotten how to heal.
Inside, we were teaching it again—one small repair at a time.
At our door, she paused. The corridor was quiet now, the hum of the vents low and steady.
“Tomorrow, I’d like to see the gardens.”
“I’ll show you,” I said. “But they’re not what you expect.”
She tilted her head. “You mean they grow underground?”
I considered that, then nodded. “Everything worth keeping does.”
Her smile turned thoughtful. “Good night, Rygnar.”
“Rest well, Lina.”
She hesitated a heartbeat longer than necessary, then stepped inside ahead of me, favoring her ankle.
I followed and sealed the door behind us. The latch settled with a soft click that sounded more like shelter than confinement.
I slid the spare pallet into place near the door and drew the partition halfway across the room—not to close us off, just enough to grant privacy. The vent breathed warmth toward the alcove, and I watched her notice it before she looked away, giving me space to do the same.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she crossed to the alcove and eased herself down, careful and composed.
“Thank you,” she murmured—not for the bed, but for the safety I offered with it.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and meant more than the words.
When the lights dimmed further, I rested my hand briefly against the stone wall. The warmth where I had touched her earlier still lingered—a small, human heat that felt like proof the war might finally be over.
At least here.
At least tonight.
Outside the door, something shifted in the corridor—footsteps that did not pass.
Chapter Seven
Stories in the Dark
Lina
Morning came on a schedule the mountain kept for itself.
