June 3, 2440 9:27 AM
T’mari caught Angelina’s eye across the room and gave the smallest tilt of her head. It was invitation and insistence in one. Angelina understood immediately. She murmured something about ugly color palettes as the others drifted toward the hall, making sure the comment was overheard. No one would question them slipping away if it sounded like a domestic aside.
The two women moved quietly down a corridor and into one of the spare rooms. Angelina realized with a start that she had never stepped inside before, though she had been living in the house nearly two weeks. The air was tinged with dust despite the whir of climate control. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crowded with books slid on iron tracks—no sleek tablets, no whisper-thin holosheets, but bound volumes of paper and glue, as if time itself had chosen this place to linger.
T’mari shut the door softly. “What did he say? And in what language?”
“It was French,” Angelina replied. She scanned the shelves, fingers skimming until she found what she needed. A cracked shopping basket, once stamped with the faded letters of a long-gone CVS, became her satchel. Into it she dropped a small pile: Intro to French. A battered French–English Dictionary. The Complete Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. The Enlightenment: A History. The Lunar Revolution by Adam Selene, its forward still signed by Professor Bernardo de la Paz. Finally, a set of scores, heavy with notes, the complete works of Gilbert and Sullivan. She carried the basket back like a priestess returning with relics.
“You looked very concerned in there,” T’mari said, her voice steady but her eyes sharp.
Angelina hesitated, then let the truth fall. “I love Matt—and have since we were in kindergarten. I was taller than him then,” she added with a small, wry smile, holding her hand at the level of a five-year-old’s head. “For the last thirty-seven years I’ve done my best to protect him from himself, and from all the weight he insists on carrying. I have always feared it would destroy him.” Her voice cracked, the words pulling themselves from a place deep and worn.
She drew a breath and continued. “Today, I realized I can’t do it anymore. Not alone. When he was just Matt—the local gentry, my employer, my friend—I was the one who kept him on the path that would bring him home safe. I can’t be that anymore. It falls to you now. I will help where I can. I’ll make sure there is beer, cheese, and Dr Pepper in the fridge. I’ll pick up the pieces. I’ll keep this house standing so there is always a place to bring him back to. But I can’t be more than what you see.”
The words hung between them, raw and honest.
T’mari’s face softened. She stepped forward and wrapped the smaller woman in her arms, the hug fierce and unshaken. “The things you do for him will matter more in the end,” she said, her voice a low promise. “Because when it is done, I will need a home to bring him back to. And I will take care of him.”
