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No chamber.
No decision waiting to bleed.
She looks at the shrine stone. “Is this Vakutan?”
“Yes.”
“What does the spiral mean?”
“Endurance through purpose.”
She nods slowly. “That feels… pointed.”
“It was always pointed.”
“Did it help before?”
“Yes.”
I turn the dull ceremonial blade in my hand. The metal catches the dim red glow of the burner. I remember kneeling in shipboard shrines before deployments, touching blades to my brow with other soldiers while chaplains spoke of honor. I remember believing the ritual did not erase fear but gave fear a place to kneel. I remember returning alone after missions, placing ash in copper bowls for those who did not come back. I remember saying names until my throat hurt and trusting something heard them beyond my voice.
Anita’s voice softens. “And now?”
“Now it feels like acting.”
She does not answer quickly.
That is one of the reasons I love her.
The old Anita might have rushed to reassure, to argue that symbols still matter, to build a theory quickly enough to save me from despair. This Anita watches the smoke curl over the stone and lets my words remain uncomfortable.
Finally, she says, “I’m sorry.”
I look at her.
She lifts one shoulder. “Not in the useless condolences way. I mean I’m sorry this got taken from you. Even if parts of it were built on mythology, even if some of it got weaponized by awful people, it gave you something. Losing it hurts.”
My grip tightens around the blade.
“That was carefully said,” I murmur.
“I am occasionally capable of emotional literacy when under extreme duress.”
“I have noticed.”
“Do not make it weird.”
“It is too late for that.”
Her mouth curves, then settles. She glances at the shrine again. “Do you want to do the ritual anyway?”
“I do not know.”
“That is allowed.”
“It was not, once.”
Her eyes turn to me.
