Dreaming of Darkness and Sunlight

Andy found them on a bench tucked just off the main garden path, hidden by an archway of flowering vines and the hush of a slow-moving morning. Dawn and Emi sat hip to hip, heads tilted together like girls at a sleepover, the sun catching the shine in their hair and the joy in their voices. Neither noticed Andy at first — they were caught up in something, and for a moment he felt like an intruder on the happiest secret in the world.

He slowed, giving them a second to finish, but Emi saw him and waved him over, her smile wide and unfiltered. Dawn scooted down the bench to make room, and patted the spot between them. “Andy!” she called, like she hadn’t seen him in years. “Come sit! You’re just in time for the part where we plan how to overthrow the brunch menu.”

He grinned, dropping onto the bench. “You want to start a coup?”

Dawn’s eyes went wide, then she giggled. “No, no, it’s more like a very polite revolution. We were just talking about what we should get for the lunch. Emi thinks it should be all dessert, all the time.”

Emi raised her hands in mock surrender, but didn’t deny it. “I stand by my work,” she said. “Baklava counts as breakfast in, like, three countries.”

Andy leaned back against the weathered wood of the bench, arms draped over the backrest, feeling the sun warm his bare forearms. The tension in his chest, which had started the morning as a tight, invisible band, loosened with every lazy, affectionate jab between Dawn and Emi. It was a relief he hadn’t known he needed—to let himself slide into the slipstream of their conversation, to set aside the burning questions in his pocket and the ghosts in every corridor of the HH. He let himself fall into their rhythm, the way you might step off a curb and trust the sidewalk to catch you on the other side.

“God, I love this,” Dawn said, stretching her arms above her head so her t-shirt rode up to reveal a band of brown skin. “I haven’t had a real morning off since… ever?”

Emi nudged her, careful not to spill the coffee cup she’d pilfered from the staff lounge. “You mean since you were born, and your parents put you on a baby schedule?”

Dawn snorted, unoffended. “Yeah, probably. If you count preschool.”

“I do,” Emi said, raising the cup in salute.

Andy watched the exchange with quiet joy. It was easy to forget, sometimes, what it looked like when people actually liked each other, when their defenses weren’t razor-wired and booby-trapped. He saw Emi’s small quirks: the way she always kept one foot tucked under her, the way her gaze darted to Dawn every time she made a joke, as if seeking permission to laugh. Dawn, for all her easy laughter, had the habit of biting her lip every time she stopped talking, as if worried she’d said too much. He catalogued these details and tucked them away, because he loved these women.

“You both seem happy,” he said, after a minute. “Like… really happy, not just surface-level okay.”

Dawn’s cheeks colored, but she held his gaze. “Is that weird?”

Andy shook his head. “Not even a little.” He smiled, and this time it wasn’t the practiced, easy grin he used to smooth over jokes or social hiccups. “You deserve it,” he said, letting the words land without apology.

Dawn blinked at him, and for a second her mask of perpetual good humor slipped. She leaned her head against his shoulder—light, tentative, but real. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For letting me.”

Andy frowned, his brow quirking. “Letting you?” The phrase sounded foreign, as if she’d said it in another language.

Dawn started to reply, but Emi put out a gentle hand, catching Andy’s before he could fidget with the bracelet on his wrist. “Wait,” Emi said, with a gravity that didn’t fit the moment but somehow made sense anyway. “Before we get too deep into feelings—”

“Christ, what a warning,” Dawn muttered, but her voice was affectionate.

Emi ignored her. “I have to ask you something. For both of us.” She squeezed his hand once, then let go as if afraid she’d taken too much.

Andy had a flash of nervousness—he was still getting used to being the emotional pinata, the one whose reaction set the tone for the room. “Okay. Ask.”

Dawn sat up straighter, voice suddenly small. “Yesterday, in the Banquet Hall,” she said. “When we stood up… you didn’t stop us.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “But you didn’t say anything, either.” She looked into his eyes, and the directness of it was the bravest thing he’d seen all week. “Do you actually want to marry us? Or was it just… the game? Or because you didn’t want to hurt our feelings?”

The question didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a soft, trembling animal, set gently in his lap to see if he’d let it stay. He looked at Emi, then back at Dawn, and realized they’d been carrying the weight of this uncertainty all morning, maybe longer.

“Yeah,” he said, the word surprising even himself in its simplicity.

Dawn’s lips parted, and Emi let out a breath she’d been holding.

“I do,” he said, louder this time, even as his cheeks flushed at the cheesiness. “Not because of momentum, or because Arabella said something, or because it’s expected. Because it’s you. Both of you.” He looked at each of them in turn, trying to pin the words to the moment so they’d remember it later. “If Arabella hadn’t said a word, I would have asked you myself. Maybe not yesterday, maybe not for a few days. But it still would have happened. That’s how I feel.” He smiled. “You both told me already that you wanted to marry. And I want to marry both of you. You make me happy in ways I never thought I could be.”

Dawn’s relief was so obvious it made him want to laugh, or maybe to cry, but he didn’t do either. She covered her face for a second, then let her hands drop. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s all I needed.”

Emi slumped against Andy’s shoulder, her weight so familiar and unselfconscious it made him ache. “I was trying really hard to look confident about it,” she confessed in a stage whisper to Dawn.

Dawn laughed, a raw, delighted sound. “I was about thirty seconds away from throwing up.”

Andy grinned. “You hid it well.”

“Liar,” Emi said, but she was smiling too.

The three of them exhaled together, an invisible tension breaking like a fever. The garden felt brighter, the sun now a balm rather than a spotlight. The birds came in on cue, their song a little louder, the breeze carrying the sugar-warm scent of plumeria and baking bread from the kitchens. Andy let the moment settle over him, a blanket he needed more than he cared to admit.

After a minute, Dawn spoke, voice lower, more deliberate. “Okay,” she said. “Then I can explain why I wanted it. Why I stood up.” She folded her hands in her lap, index fingers tapping nervously. “My whole life, I’ve loved people who needed me. My brothers, my dad… Even Abuela, a little. Being useful was my job. It’s how I knew I was worth something.” She shrugged, eyes never leaving his. “But you’re the first person who ever loved me without needing me to fix or carry or organize anything.” She reached for him, almost absently, and gave his forearm a squeeze. “You let me just… be. And it turns out I like that more than I thought I would.”

Emi’s eyes glistened, and she reached across Andy to rest her hand over Dawn’s. “That’s not weird,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

Andy smiled. It was enough to hear Dawn say it—enough that her voice trembled but didn’t break.

Emi blinked, then turned her gaze on Andy. “For me,” she said, her voice much smaller, “it’s kind of the opposite. I always thought you were the type of person who… collects people.”

Andy cocked his head, but Emi hurried to clarify. “Not, like, in a creepy way. Just… you make space for people. All sorts. Every time someone is left out, or weird, or scared, you find a way to bring them in.” She gestured toward the window of the main building, where Liesa and Sam argued amiably over a chessboard visible even from here. “Look at the harem. Claire, Liesa, Dawn, Myra. Even Norah. You gave every one of them a place. And I kept thinking, if you can make room for all of them, maybe there’s room for someone like me, too.” She smiled sheepishly. “Then yesterday I realized something which you’ve been trying to tell me for a while now. There already was room for me.”

Dawn squeezed her hand. Andy didn’t trust himself to speak for a second, but finally he managed: “Thank you for telling me.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “A little,” he said, “but in a good way.” He looked at each woman in turn, and this time the silence that followed was a companionable thing, not an awkward one. For a while, they just sat there, listening to the wind and the birds and the distant thud of Norah rearranging the Hall of Curiosities for the fourth time that morning.

Andy wanted to say something profound, but everything that came to mind seemed pale beside the honesty Dawn and Emi had just handed him. He let it settle, then tried anyway. “I don’t think I realized until this week how hard it is to let people in,” he said, his eyes on the path that wound toward the library. “You both do it so naturally. You make it look easy.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, but not unkindly. “I spent years not doing it,” she said. “I’m just making up for lost time.”

Emi was quiet for a moment, then she reached across and touched Andy’s wrist, her pinky finger barely grazing his skin. “You’re good at it, Andy,” she said. “We all see it, even if you don’t. As I said, you kind of collect people. Every time someone feels like they don’t belong, somehow they end up orbiting you.” She gestured vaguely toward the hotel. “And then they suddenly do belong.”

Andy felt his cheeks heat up. “Thanks,” he said, too softly, but Emi caught it and smiled.

The sun moved higher, and Dawn stretched her legs, tipping her head back to let the light touch her face. “You know what I like about this place?” she said. “It’s always the perfect weather. Like it’s set just right, so you want to go outside and talk, and not stay locked up with your worries.”

Emi nodded. “It’s the best garden I’ve ever been in, even if it’s not real. It feels safe.”

Andy looked around at the dappled shadows, the deep greens and flashes of blossom. “It does,” he said. “Even with all the weirdness. Maybe especially because of it.”

They stayed like that for a few heartbeats, the three of them joined at the knuckles, the world holding its breath.

Then Emi grinned and said, “So what are we having for lunch? I vote cinnamon rolls and cake pops.”

Dawn wrinkled her nose. “You’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

“That’s the point,” Emi said, her smile going sly. “Might as well live a little, right?”

Andy laughed, really laughed, and felt the heaviness of the morning dissolve like sugar in hot coffee. “You two are dangerous,” he said, shaking his head.

“You love it,” Dawn teased.

He did. More than he could say.

As they stood to go, Emi reached out and brushed a fallen leaf from Andy’s hair, tucking it behind her own ear with a self-conscious flick. “See?” she said lightly. “Already collecting stray leaves.”

Dawn snorted, then looped her arm through his. They walked back toward the Main Lobby, the sun at their backs and the promise of cinnamon rolls (or maybe just more good company) waiting at the end of the path.

Andy found Arabella in a place that felt like it belonged to neither of them. The corridor was deep in the old wing, where the banisters were finished with mother-of-pearl and the lamps burned blue-white even at midday. There was nothing to recommend it—no art, no flowers, not even a window for orientation. It existed to connect points A and B, and Andy guessed that Arabella liked it precisely because of that: it was in-between, and in-between was where she was at her most honest.

She didn’t look surprised when he turned the corner and nearly collided with her. Arabella was leaning against the wall, arms folded, head bowed as if listening to the floor. For a moment Andy had the strange impression she had been waiting.

She wore a dark silk dress, simple by her standards, and for once her hair hung straight instead of perfectly curled. She looked up when Andy’s steps broke the hush, and her face brightened, though it didn’t quite make it all the way to her eyes.

“Andy.” The word was a greeting, but not a question. “I was just thinking about you.”

He tried to match her for insouciance. “Isn’t that your job?”

She tilted her head, as if to suggest the answer was more complicated than he’d ever want to hear. “It’s a strange thing,” she said, “to find yourself at loose ends in your own house.” Her gaze flicked up and down the corridor, then settled back on him. “What brings you here, this morning?”

He stopped a few feet away, letting the quiet settle back around them. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said, “before the next round starts.”

Arabella pressed her lips together, then nodded, the invitation gentle but firm. “Ask.”

He considered how to phrase it, then just said, “Let’s say we get everyone to one hundred points in the next round. Hypothetically. Does the game end then? Can we skip the last two rounds?”

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “You know, in every rebellion there’s always one who tips his hand to the authorities before the plan is ready.”

He grinned. “You’re not the authorities. You already know what I’m asking. And I know you never really wanted to hurt any of us. I just want to know if the plan actually would work.”

Arabella’s laugh was soft, not quite musical, but warmer than he’d heard in weeks. “I suppose I should be flattered. But you’re correct. The rules are clear: if every remaining Contestant reaches one hundred points, the endgame is triggered, and the next Challenge becomes the final one. It’s rarely happened, but it would work.” She paused. “In theory.”

“In theory?” He raised an eyebrow.

Arabella shrugged, letting the moment breathe. “There are always contingencies.” She let her gaze linger on his. “If you do manage this coup, be aware: any Contestant who passes the threshold is frozen there. They can’t donate points, can’t—how did you once say it?—‘game the system’ with a last-minute shuffle. Once you cross the line, you’re playing a different game.”

He caught the subtext, the gentle warning embedded in her voice. “Is that a problem? For you, I mean.”

Arabella’s eyes lost their focus for a split second, like she was searching for something out past the edge of the corridor. “It would solve a great many problems,” she said, so softly he almost missed it. The words sounded less like strategy and more like relief.

Andy let the silence run, then said, “But?”

Her shoulders went rigid, then relaxed. “No ‘but’. You are clever, Andy. And stubborn. I knew when you first arrived that if anyone could break the pattern, it would be you. Or you and her.” She let the pronoun hang, as if Laura’s name was a talisman she didn’t want to use unnecessarily. “But if you want to end the game, I suggest you do it swiftly. Lingering brings… unnecessary risks.”

She said it in a way that made the hairs on his neck rise. “Unnecessary for who?” he asked.

She took a moment, then said, “For everyone.” Including you, the silence seemed to add.

Andy nodded, shivering and feeling the answer settle deep in his ribs. “Thank you. For being straight with me.”

“Not at all,” she said, straightening and brushing a nonexistent speck from her dress. “Was there anything else?”

Andy hesitated, weighing the gravity of what Claire had discovered. “In the Sky Archive,” he began carefully, “Claire found records about the first Dilmun season. About Ereshkigal and Abi-Eshu... and Inanna.” He watched Arabella’s face, searching for recognition. “She pieced together parts of the myth—how Inanna descended to the underworld but could only return if someone took her place.” His voice dropped lower. “Claire’s terrified that for Laura to stay here, someone has to replace Laura in the underworld. That there’s always a... balance.”

Arabella’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Claire is perceptive. Perhaps dangerously so.”

She studied him for a moment, as if weighing how much he already understood. “The old myths are not stories, Andy. They are… patterns. Recurring structures. Inanna’s descent. The bargain for her return. The substitution.” She folded her arms again, gaze distant. “Those rules existed long before this game did.”

Andy felt the air in the corridor grow colder. “So Claire’s right?” he asked quietly. “Someone always has to take the place of the one who comes back?”

Arabella’s expression did not change, but something in her posture tightened. “Balance is a powerful idea,” she said carefully. “But balance does not always look the way the myths claim.” Her eyes flicked to his. “And sometimes the price has not yet been collected.”

The words settled between them like frost, and Andy exhaled slowly.

“Right,” he said. “So maybe the real question isn’t the myth.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Maybe it’s what happened the last time something like this went wrong.” But he could see Arabella wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer.

He hesitated. The other question was the question he’d rehearsed twice in his head, but only now realized he’d need to phrase carefully. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I want to ask about what happens when a Contestant is eliminated. I know what you told me before, but I want to know what actually happens. Not the marketing, not the legend.”

Arabella studied him for a long moment. The ambient hum of the corridor seemed to sharpen, as if it were trying to amplify even the smallest movement.

“Which season?” she asked, and the question caught him off guard.

He thought of the collar in the Hall of Curiosities, the photo of the woman with her child, the note from Sarah. “The one with Sandra. And the one with Sarah, and Carol. Greg’s season. You told me something about the Master, but what about them?”

Arabella closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she looked not older, but tired in a way that had nothing to do with years. “They went home,” she said. “With him.”

“Just like that?” Andy tried to keep the edge out of his voice.

Arabella shook her head. “Not just like that.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself tighter than before. “It was a very long season, Andy. Sarah gave birth to a child on this island. She won the wish. But neither her nor Sandra, nor anyone else for that matter, was ever truly free.” The correction came out sharp, like a reflex. “None of them were. Greg’s harem bond bound them to him for as long as he lived. The Producers wrote it up as a fairy tale, but the truth is, they went back with every transformation still active, every loss still real.”

Andy felt something black and heavy at the base of his throat. “And what did that mean for Sandra?”

Arabella spoke with a careful distance, as if reciting someone else’s confession. “She lived in squalor. She couldn’t raise their child, who was put up for adoption. The other women loved her, as they could, but she could never stand upright, could never speak without his permission, could never hold the child with her own hands.” Arabella’s voice wavered, just once. “The neighbors accepted her because they saw what they were meant to see: a loyal dog, a clever pet, not a woman twisted by the game.”

It was worse than he’d let himself imagine. “So even outside the game, nobody could see what had been done to her?”

“They saw what the world wanted to see.” Arabella’s voice was flat, but Andy heard the pain underneath. “The game doesn’t just transform bodies. It alters perception, history, the narrative itself. If the rules are followed, the world’s memory is rewritten to accommodate whatever new reality is required.” She looked at him. “Think of Sumiku.”

Andy was confused, and Arabella smiled sadly. “An eliminated Contestant from Takamahagara, Andy. You’ve met her, although you aren’t aware of it. Remember the mug Dawn brought up to your Suite, that first night?”

Andy did remember: a flesh-pink mug, with bouncing silicon breasts hanging from it. The memory curdled in his stomach. An obscene novelty item, he had thought at the time, but quite on-brand for Harem Hotel. Then Arabella’s meaning reached him, and he shuddered. Arabella nodded softly. “Yes. I suppress her awareness, or she would be eternally aware in there. I let her stay here, rather than in the Hollow Garden, because apparently, being around other Contestants makes her feel happier, for a little while.” She looked at Andy, and her eyes were surprisingly raw. “As I said, people see what they are meant to see.”

Andy let that sink in. “But you knew,” he said. “You saw it happen.”

Arabella nodded, slow. “I always saw. Unlike many of my peers, I never took pleasure in hurting others. I just… was taught not to interfere. So I simply convinced myself it wasn’t my place to stop it. The Producers insisted that everyone would be happy, in the end. That’s what I told myself, at first. I rationalized it far beyond the point where I should have stopped. And after Greg’s season, I knew it wasn’t true.”

He thought of the letter, Sarah’s plea to Arabella, and asked, “Did you ever try to help them?”

A flicker of something crossed Arabella’s face. “I tried,” she said, voice thin. “But the rules are in my bones, the transformations were written into the contract, and Greg was clever. He had a transformation that let him tweak theirs, when they were assigned. He used it to mold the harem into his perfect vision. The best I could do was… make sure they wouldn’t be alone, if he ever left. Or if something went wrong. And yes, I did give Sarah my promise.”

Andy felt the old anger, the urge to blame her, but now there was a new edge: a knowledge that she was as much a prisoner as any of the women she’d presided over. “You don’t seem like someone who likes following orders,” he said, not unkindly.

Arabella smiled, a twist of old pain. “I thought, once, that if I played the game well, eventually I could change the rules.” She straightened, chin lifted. “Now I know better. Sometimes the best you can do is remember who paid the price. All I can do is make sure nobody is forgotten.”

He let the words work through him, then asked, “What about Sarah? The one who wrote the letters. She warned the next generation about Greg. She wanted you to remember her.”

Arabella’s lips trembled. “I remember all of them, Andy.” The name came out softer than usual. She looked away, blinking hard. “But Sarah… she fought for herself, for her sister, for Sandra, for Carol, for all of them. When the game ended, she was the only one who didn’t go quietly. She won the wish, you know. Some would have used it to find a way to punish the Master. Others would have pleased the Master by wishing for wealth or power. She only worried about her child.”

Andy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

After a long, painful moment, Arabella said, “The Hollow Garden was built for women like Sarah. Dedicated to everyone who slipped through the cracks. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than the alternative. If you want real closure, you should visit, after the challenge. Talk with Dinah and Eden. They miss you, and they can show you more of the work they do there. Their work with the eliminated contestants has given them answers I cannot give you. Emily might be able to give you some advice, too.”

The conversation had finished. Andy could see it in the set of her jaw, the way she folded her hands in front of her, the way her eyes had already turned toward whatever next duty called her away. They had reached a point where she couldn't answer more clearly. He wanted to say something comforting, but there was nothing to say. So he just nodded, once, then again, and turned to go.

He’d made it five steps before Arabella spoke, her voice so low it barely carried. “Thank you for asking, Andy. Not everyone would.”

He paused, then let the words settle on his shoulders. “Thank you, Arabella. I know you tried,” he said, and this time he understood what it had cost her to answer.

He walked away, the memory of the corridor burning in his mind, and tried to carry with him the weight of all the women who had come before.

The Suite was empty when Andy returned. The table was cleared, plates rinsed and stacked neatly by the sink, the smell of coffee lingering on the air like the memory of a conversation. In the hush that followed, the painting felt even more alive: Katherine, poised in her frame, perched on the dining chair where the others had left her after breakfast.

He sat down in front of her, taking the place where Laura had eaten only hours before, and rested his elbows on the table. The room had the echoing silence of a church after a wedding—still, weightless, pregnant with whatever came next.

Katherine’s eyes tracked his movements. For a moment, she tried to hide it, but then she looked straight at him, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She wore her usual grace like armor, hands folded over her lap, long black hair falling in soft waves that seemed to shimmer even in the cloud-filtered light.

He reached out and set his hand against the frame, just below her feet. “Hey,” he said, then felt foolish, because what was the etiquette for talking to a painting? “I wanted to talk to you about the lunch.”

She tilted her head, a question.

Andy hesitated. “You know I want you there,” he said. “With everyone. But I need to ask if you’re okay with it. Really okay. Not just… doing it because you think you’re supposed to.”

Katherine gave a small, careful nod. She pressed her palm to her heart, then to the inside of the canvas, then mimed drawing a breath, as if steeling herself. Her smile, this time, was less certain—her green eyes shining, but with a shimmer of something like fear, or anticipation.

Andy could feel it, through the strange line that connected them: the thrum of anxiety, the hope, the edge of longing. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said. “I’ll tell them anything you want, or nothing at all. It’s your story as much as mine.”

She shook her head, firm, and then—almost shy—tapped a finger against her chest, then pointed at Andy, then made a gentle sweeping gesture with both hands, encompassing the whole room. He understood: I want to be part of this, too.

He smiled. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

They sat in silence for a while. Andy leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, just existing in the hush. He started talking, quietly, about the morning—how Claire was scared about the future, how Norah found the Hall of Curiosities, how Dawn and Emi were happier than he’d ever seen them, how even the hard parts of the day felt a little less heavy, sitting here. Katherine listened, never interrupting, but her face told him everything he needed to know.

He told her about Claire’s notebooks, about the myth of Dilmun and the old seasons, about the letter from Sarah and the ache in his chest when he thought about what happened to all the others. He told her about Anna, about Arabella, about the mystery of Ereshkigal and the rules that might or might not apply. He confessed his fear that he was missing something, that there was still some cosmic math he hadn’t solved.

Katherine’s answer was a look: steady, unwavering, a refusal to pity or to flinch. She mimed a pulling motion, like knitting a thread, then touched her heart. You’re still you, it said, even if you never know the whole story.

He laughed, a little raw, and pressed his forehead to the table. “You’d have made a good therapist,” he said, and she responded with an eyeroll that reminded him of Laura at her most exasperated.

He straightened and looked at her, really looked, letting his eyes adjust to the painted world beyond her. It was brighter, maybe, than it used to be. The background—once just a blur of meadow and sky—had more detail now: wildflowers, a few butterflies, the subtle suggestion of a path winding out of sight. Andy tried to remember if he’d ever seen it quite so crisp, but then, maybe that was just his mind filling in the blanks.

Except, today, there was something new.

Just behind Katherine’s left shoulder, half-hidden in the painted grass, was a glint of blue. Not a flower, not a shadow—something almost metallic, like the shine of a lost ring or a bead of glass. Further out, on the horizon, the faintest suggestion of a mountain had appeared—a low, pale shape with the barest hint of a plume rising from its summit. The island’s volcano, he realized, or at least its mythic twin.

He leaned forward, pointing. “Did you always have that?” he asked, a little amazed.

Katherine looked over her shoulder, then back at him. She shrugged, as if to say, It’s your world. I just live in it.

He smiled. “Guess you’re right,” he said.

He wondered what the blue glint was, what it meant, if anything. Katherine shook her head when he asked—she didn’t know, couldn’t check. The foreground was her entire domain; whatever changed in the background was just the scenery, unchangeable, out of reach.

The volcano, too, didn’t seem to alarm her. If anything, it seemed to steady her, as if knowing it was there anchored her in the painting in a way she found comforting, or at least familiar. Maybe, Andy thought, everyone needed a horizon—something to orient themselves, even if they never got closer.

He reached for the frame again. “You ready?”

Katherine exhaled—he could see the sigh in her shoulders, the way her arms relaxed against her body. Then she nodded, yes, and touched her hand to the invisible glass in a silent benediction.

Andy took a second to memorize the moment: the sunlight filtering across the table, the precise angle of her head, the sense that they were, for the first time, seeing the same world at the same time.