—December 9, 2160, 20:35:28—

  The only light in Cato’s apartment came from a single warm lamp in the corner, casting a small, safe circle of gold on the sofa where they lay. The rest of the room was a study in shadows. On a low table, the news terminal murmured, its tinny voice cheerfully reporting on a new transit initiative downtown, a mundane, optimistic sound that felt like it was coming from another world. Evie’s head rested in Cato’s lap, his fingers stroking her long, red hair in a slow, rhythmic pattern. It was the only thing keeping her tethered to this reality.

  Today had taken its toll. She knew he couldn’t possibly understand. How could he? Even if she wanted to tell him everything—and tonight, the very thought of what she’d seen made her throat close—she couldn't put that kind of cosmic horror on him. He probably knew something didn’t add up by now. What kind of twenty-two-year-old woman works six days a week and never gets a vacation? Her excuses for never getting away from the "office" were wearing thin, even to her. She didn't know what lie she'd come up with next.

  In their quiet evening ritual, they had gotten used to just being with each other. Not talking. Just being. It was what she needed. He had been good about not prodding, his patience a quiet, steady presence she clung to.

  She lay on her side, her gaze falling on his jacket, folded neatly over the ottoman where he’d kicked his bare feet up. Her eyes traced the neatly embroidered “Verillian Echoes” emblem stitched on the sleeve. A life of exploration. Of adventure. Of choice.

  Slowly, she rolled over onto her back, looking up at Cato’s face. He was already looking down at her, a faint, gentle smile on his lips. His brown hair was a contradiction, buzzed short at the neck and ears but tapering up to an unkempt mess on top, each strand standing on end, pointed in a different direction. She envied the simpleness with which he lived his life. His apartment was minimal. His clothes were plain. His job was everything hers wasn’t.

  "You still want to go out there with me Sunday?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  She sighed, the sound barely audible. She moved her hand to cup his face, her thumb stroking the rough stubble on his cheek. "How about tomorrow instead?" she asked, her voice blank.

  He chuckled softly. "I thought you were going into the office. Tomorrow is Friday, right?" He playfully put the back of his hand against her forehead. "Are you feeling well? Wait, you are still Evie Vaughn, correct? The woman who never takes a day off from work?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Evie managed the slightest hint of a smile and rolled back onto her side, her ear pressing against the solid warmth of his thigh. "I'm still Evie," she said. "But I'm not sure I can go back there." Her voice sounded weak and distant, even to herself.

  Cato’s hand stilled in her hair. He sensed the shift instantly, gently coaxing her with his hands to sit up and face him. "Evie, what happened today? You're not yourself."

  She couldn't bear to look at him. She slinked her head onto his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt absorbing her breath. She didn't even know where to start, so she just let out a full, shuddering breath of air.

  "Cato, I can't do it anymore. I…" She trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

  He reached out and took her hand, meshing his fingers with hers. "Hey, hey. Whatever it is, I’m right here."

  She squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back, a silent anchor in a storm she couldn't name. She decided to open up a small crack into her mind. "Do you ever feel like you just can’t stop doing something? Like you’re just… stuck?"

  Cato thought for a few seconds. "Yeah, I mean, everybody does a little bit, right?"

  "What do you do when you know that everybody needs you to keep doing that thing," she pressed, her voice tight, "but you really, really want to quit?"

  She could feel his gaze peering through the top of her head during the brief silence.

  "Honestly, babe?" He slid a finger under her chin and gently directed her eyes up to his. "I just quit."

  A warm tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. "What if you can't?" Her voice broke, softening to a whisper. "What if everything you care about would go away if you stopped?"

  Cato wiped away the tear on her chin with his thumb, his deep blue eyes full of a warm, penetrating look. "Evie, I get it. We all feel like we’re trying to save the world sometimes. Every now and then, you just have to trust that it’ll still be there when you’re away."

  "And what happens when it isn't?"

  Cato shrugged, a simple, physical expression of a freedom she couldn't comprehend. "That’s a problem for another day."

  Evie looked away, still clutching his hand like a lifeline. “I don’t feel like I have a choice.” Her voice resigned.

  “We always have choices. We can always walk away…” Cato said, flatly. “...if we decide to.”

  She looked up at him. "Then take me tomorrow," she whispered. "Take me to the place you showed me last time."

  "The garden?" he asked, a flicker in his eyes—gone as soon as it came.

  “Yeah…the garden.” She nodded and closed her eyes, pressing closer against him, trying to absorb some of his simple, solid peace. “I need to stop seeing how everything ends. I need to see something that lives.”