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Sasha goes to the sea.
It's a grey day when she arrives. Grey but not raining, and even these choppy waves are calmer than the last time she'd been on a boat.
The salt smell is the same.
"Hey," she says. "I, uh, I don't forgive easy, y'know Zolf? Plenty of people I haven't forgiven, even if they were a bit useful later."
A stone, old and smooth and heavy in her hand, disappears where she throws it at the waves.
"I forgive you, though. You're worth forgiving."
She's not sure how to say it so he'll understand. What she'd appraised in the lines in his face, his hand on her back as she rode, dizzy, out of London, strong arms around her shoulders when she'd carried him through Paris. A kinda sameness between them she still can't identify.
"I'm gonna name a kid after you," she tells the waves, flipping a knife. "You ever think I'd have kids? Cause I didn't. Don't know what to do with 'em, really."
"I'm glad it was you," she says later, kicking the sand. "To put my guts back in. Even if I did kinda turn into a zombie later. It's like… company, y'know?" She could use the company.
Later still, she sits like her own gargoyle on the edge of a cliff, dangles her legs toward the sea. It was good to come. Settled something that'd been out of alignment for a while. "Cheers, Zolf."
That, at least, she thinks he'd understand.