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There is a faint reverb, a high-pitched glissando that modulates lower and lower until it resembles a sigh. Hope—the pain of it throbs sharply in his eardrums.
“Is that you?” Hayden whispers.
Nothing. Then... static skittering upwards, a lost, plaintive spark. Then it begins to curl weakly and slowly around his spine.
“Horatio?”
A piece of him. I think.
Hayden holds his breath. Even this feeble, flickering touch is too much. He's starved. Who says he hasn’t gone insane already, conversing with an imaginary voice in his head?
Am I a memory? Horatio’s voice crackles. The data from their shared pathways trickles slowly, much like snow melting. Then, achingly confused, Do you know me?
I'd sooner forget myself, Hayden thinks.
You are small. So small. Horatio hesitates. I am small.
Hayden has to force himself to remember the sheer proportions of Elsinore. The leviathan of a mind pressing behind his own. He could live happily enough in a nutshell, if only... You’ll have to get used to it. I can give you the thermostat and the washer to control. Hayden briefly wonders if he’s going mad for real this time.
Even if you are, Horatio’s voice soothes, I’m here.