Chapter Text
Plink—plop. Two water droplets kissed the side of his head.
Morning, the kind that forgets to breathe.
A cracked faucet dribbled in the corner; wind teased the tin roof with a tired whistle. The tatami pressed splinters of ache into Shinji's spine.
Getting up was treason against what little comfort remained. He hissed—pain's tiny punctuation—then shrugged deeper into Toji's sun-bleached jacket, the blanket a threadbare apology sliding from his shoulders.
Across the room, Asuka hovered at the stove, Kensuke's green bomber swallowing her slight frame.
Hand-me-down Armour, He thought. mismatched like the two of them. We're wearing our friends jackets. No one's wearing me. There's no one I could give anything to.
As if she tasted the line forming in his head, Asuka flicked her gaze over one shoulder—sharp, surgical.
He looked back, and with the click of her tongue, she turned away. The kettle exhaled. So did whatever remained of his dignity.
Routine filled the silence because words would drown in it. Shinji rinsed rice while beans soaked like bruises in a dented pot.
The Protein bricks still lurked on the shelf. Exactly where they were, when she'd forced them down his throat a few days prior; he couldn't look at them without feeling the corners of her frustration scraping his oesophagus.
Two bowls landed on the low table. One steamed. The other waited, cooling in the draft. Asuka didn't sit. She crossed her arms, the bomber creaking, eyes tracing the ceiling as if searching for something.
The faucet kept its metronome: plink—plop—plink. A lullaby for people who'd run out of them.
"Why isn't it fixed?" she asked, without looking at him.
"It should've been," he murmured. "Kensuke—"
"Kenken should've done it himself." Her voice cut in without hesitation. "Should've known not to trust you to do anything."
Shinji didn't flinch. He just kept eating his rice. Slowly. Mechanically.
The words didn't sting. Not anymore. They just… accumulated. Like dust in the corners of his mind.
He almost laughed. Almost.
A breath caught sideways in his chest, crooked and dry. Of course she said that. Of course it was true. Failure wasn't an event—it was a scent, an aura. And he carried it like mould.
Rei's words had pulled him from the depths, but Asuka's always build a ladder back down.
He sighed, not for her benefit, and pushed away the familiar lump in his throat. His tears had all been used up by now. So he could only chew. Swallowing.
Because what else could he do with the feelings Asuka left him? That she made him feel?
Swallow them. Until the taste was gone—or he was.
When he finished his bowl, she wasn't there. She'd gone off somewhere in the shack, or maybe out. It didn't matter. He didn't ask. He didn't care.
Outside, the sky was wide and empty. A blank page no one had the energy to write on. Wind moved in low gusts over the open plain, tugging gently at the edges of his borrowed clothes.
He didn't head toward the ruins—he never would again. Instead, he turned toward the other edge of town, where the fishing traps lined the shallows. Kensuke had told him not to come help today. "You've done enough, Ikari. Take a break."
But somehow that was worse. Breaks meant unlimited time. Time to sit, time to think.
Being around Asuka was like living beside a landmine—beautifully deadly. Forgotten until it reminded you. Every step needed calculation. Every silence could be fatal. He was sure, she was tired of it too. He could feel it.
Maybe it would be better if—
A sudden collision. Small. Fast. Human.
"Whoa!"
A boy stumbled back from him, nearly toppling under the weight of gear and awkward momentum.
Shinji steadied him instinctively. The kid looked… off. Foreign somehow. Not entirely, but something in his cheekbones, his skin tone, his eyes. Japanese, yes—but not only. Like a mirror cracked at the edge.
"Sorry there!" the boy said, breathless and bright. His fishing gear rattled as he adjusted it—hastily tied nets, improvised boots, a toolkit hanging off his side like a sword.
"It's okay," Shinji rasped, surprised at how rough his voice had gotten. Maybe Asuka had done more damage than he thought. "Why were you—?"
"Oh! Just gotta get these fish to the market real quick, helps with the old lady's request." the boy laughed, already half looking past Shinji, bouncing on his heels.
"Oh… okay. Well, I hope it goes well. Your… endeavor." Your real life. Your post-apocalypse errand. Your normal.
"No problem," the boy grinned, still scanning behind him. Waiting.
Shinji, confused, started to step aside—and that's when he saw her.
A girl, same age, sprinting up the hill with cooler boxes stacked in her arms like siege weapons. Red-faced, hair tangled, eyes burning with effort.
Twins?
They matched, almost unnervingly so. Echoes in a world where echoes were dangerous. But what unnerved Shinji more was their presence. They had the same worn hands, the same speed, the same coordination that came from being alive every day.
Not from waking up in a different world with a boy's body and a man's sins.
They reminded him of his former self. Not exactly. But enough.
He blinked, and for a second, didn't know what age he was. What self he was. Fourteen years, they'd said. A blink. A grave. A thousand endings, stapled together in the shape of a boy.
One moment it was dark. The next, Kaworu's head exploded in front of him. Then silence. Then her—Asuka—dragging him by the wrist like a corpse that wouldn't stay dead.
This was all his fault. Because he acted. Because he thought saving one person meant anything.
"Hey, sis!" the boy called behind Shinji. "C'mon!"
"I'm coming!" she barked back, shifting the load on her arms.
And for one second—
Just one—
Shinji didn't see the girl.
He saw Asuka.
The breath left his body like a plug had been pulled. His foot caught on the dirt path, and he nearly pitched forward.
"Whoa there!" the boy barked from behind, catching Shinji's stumble with a surprised grin. "Looks like you're the one falling now."
Shinji blinked—hard. "No, it's…"
He didn't finish the sentence. Because how could he explain the way her hair moved beneath that worn sun-hat? How the angle of her jaw in motion caught the light just so? He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or grieving. Maybe both.
Probably both.
"Sorry," the girl said, coming to a full stop in front of them.
It was the hat. That's what did it. The way it shadowed her hair, made it look like that impossible blend—half auburn, half brunette. And the way she walked. Confident. Efficient. Like someone used to dragging the dead weight of others.
It wasn't her.
But it was close enough to hurt.
"You can ignore my brother," she added with a dramatic sigh, adjusting her grip on the cooler boxes. "Wanna help?"
"I don't think that's necessary," the boy chimed in. "We're not supposed to bother people."
"We're not bothering him," she snapped. "Are we?" She turned those eyes on Shinji—bright, searching. Halfway between child and adult. The moment stretched thin.
He was still trying to convince himself Asuka wasn't in front of him.
But looking closer… there was something of Rei in her too.
Great, he thought. I'm going crazy.
He shook his head to clear the static.
"No," he said. "You're not bothering me. I can help."
She smiled, and the smile was new. It wasn't hers. not Asuka's, or Rei', not anyone's.
It belonged completely to this strange girl with her coolers and her cool brother.
"Thanks," she said brightly. "You can take the lighter ones."
"It's fine," Shinji offered. "I can do the heavy one."
"No. I insist." Her smile turned wry. Practical. "Let me do the heavy one. It's easier for me that way."
"Why isn't your brother helping?" he asked—genuine confusion, maybe a little sarcasm too.
The girl whipped around and fixed her brother with a glare. The universal look of sibling judgment:
Go on. Defend your selfish laziness.
The boy raised a hand to his heart in mock pain. "Yesterday she made me carry them. Alone. No help." His voice cracked with theatrical suffering.
They stared each other down. She raised an eyebrow. He rolled his eyes.
It was the kind of moment that belonged to people who'd known each other forever. Who didn't have to ask why they were still here.
Shinji watched them, coolers between them like some ancient domestic argument re-enacted for the end of the world.
He didn't know why, but it made his chest ache.
"Sorry I asked," Shinji muttered. "Let's just go…"
He took the lighter box from the girl—and immediately regretted pretending to be fine. It was not light. She'd lied. Or maybe she just hadn't noticed. Or maybe she thought he was stronger than he looked.
He stumbled. Again. Just enough to lose a little dignity.
"Holdin' up okay?" the boy asked, grinning with far too many teeth.
"Yeah…" Shinji groaned. "Just fine."
They began the slow climb up the slope, cooler boxes bobbing awkwardly at their sides, the village coming into view like a waking machine. Always moving. Always lifting. Always fixing. Men hauling crates, tracks churning, pulleys squeaking like broken music.
How they kept the fuel running—how they kept anything running—Shinji didn't want to know. Probably one of those monolithic Anti-L Field pillars humming away somewhere.
"Come on, we need to hurry," the boy said, pacing ahead with the ease of someone who didn't overthink where to place his feet.
"So you can do nothing the rest of the day," his sister shot at him.
"You know me so well," he smirked.
Shinji watched them for a second, the easy rhythm of siblings who didn't know how rare they were.
"Where do you guys stay?" he asked.
"One of the houses farther out," the girl replied. "Not in the village really—but far enough from the Eva corpses."
He felt his stomach twist. He hadn't really given them much—those hulking, half-living husks dotting the landscape like tombstones with spines. What had Kaworu said? A Failure of infinity.
He winced. Another thing to blame himself for. Another form in the ever-expanding graveyard he carried behind his eyes.
And they looked like Unit-01. Of course they did. His shame always had the same face.
He sighed—quiet, guttural, almost involuntary.
"Are we boring you?" the girl asked, noticing.
"No, it's just…" He hesitated, the words failing before they formed. "I was thinking."
"Try not to think too much," the boy offered, still smiling but with a strange wisdom behind it. "You can set yourself in a very bad shape that way."
"Good thing you don't have a brain," his sister replied, grinning.
"Haha," he said, unamused. Then to Shinji: "Seriously though. Try not to spend too much time in your head. It's bad in there. I've seen that look before."
"Easy for you to say," Shinji said—and to his own surprise, almost laughed.
The girl glanced at him. Something softened behind her expression.
"We've all done some pretty bad things to stay alive in this world," she said quietly. "You're not the only one with a weight on your shoulders."
"Maybe," he said. "But this is all my fault. I did this. I'm the reason so many people are dead. I'm the reason they all had to fight. It's all…"
He couldn't finish. The sentence collapsed in his mouth. He was tired of saying it. Tired of hearing it. Tired of being it.
They kept walking. No one said anything at first.
He got the creeping sense he'd just made it awkward. Of course he had. That's what he did. He broke things. He broke people. Maybe he'd broken their lives, too. Maybe they were only here because they'd lost parents in the chaos he'd created.
He felt another sigh rising—but the girl spoke before it escaped.
"That might be true," she said. "But you're also the reason we're here at all."
Shinji blinked.
"You fought for us," she said. "Even if you didn't win."
"I know I wouldn't have," the boy added, grinning again. "Not without pay."
It was a joke. But not entirely. There was something sincere beneath the punchline.
"You were given a bad hand," the girl said. "And still… if you hadn't done anything, we'd all be dead. You fought, and only most of us died. That's not winning. But it's not losing either."
"At least, that's what the old lady says," the boy chimed in again, groaning theatrically. "The one whose gonna be mad her stuff is late."
Shinji exhaled—not quite a laugh. Not quite relief. Just… an exhale. Something ancient shifting inside his ribcage.
The guilt didn't leave. But maybe, for the first time in a long while, it got lighter.
They arrived at the fishing post just as the morning crowd began to thin.
Baskets of fish lay open on tarps, slick and staring. A few men gutted carp with short, ugly knives while others salted them or smoked them over low coals.
The smell hit Shinji immediately—brine, blood, charcoal, and some kind of spice he couldn't name. Kaji would've known. He talked about smells once.
He stood there awkwardly, trying not to get in the way, trying not to stare. It was a kind of life he didn't recognize. Honest, maybe. Or at least necessary.
The twins approached a squat old woman behind a folding table, still wearing the rubber gloves from her last dissection. They handed her two of their cooler boxes, and she lit into the boy immediately.
"What the hell took you so long?! You think I've got time to sit around waiting for children?! I told you—eight o'clock sharp!"
The boy didn't flinch. Just squared his shoulders and took it head on. "Sorry, ma'am," he said with the weird dignity only teenagers could fake.
Shinji blinked. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. Just a puff of air. Nothing loud. But real.
The girl rolled her eyes and hoisted the last remaining box onto her hip. They were already turning to leave when one of the workers tossed her a small cloth bag—drawn tight at the neck with string.
She caught it mid-air and handed it to her brother.
"What's that?" Shinji asked, watching the way the boy gave it a shake, like it might bark or explode.
"Oh, something we've gotta deliver to the old lady," the boy said, holding it up by the cord.
"The one who just yelled at you?" Shinji asked.
"No," the girl said, brushing past him. "The one up the hill."
He hesitated. "Oh."
She turned back toward him, adjusting her load.
"You can come if you want," she said. Casual. But not dismissive. "You don't have to. I mean… thanks for the help with the boxes."
"Yeah, thanks," the boy echoed, fishing around in his coat. He pulled out a slightly crumpled protein brick and held it out solemnly, like he was bestowing a family heirloom. "As thanks."
Shinji stared at it. Brown wrapping. Military seal. The same kind Asuka had once force-fed him. He almost winced—but didn't.
"No problem," he murmured, taking it. The bar felt dense in his hand. Like memory.
He glanced at the road stretching uphill. At the dust still hanging in the morning air.
"I've got nothing to do anyway," he said quietly. "So…"
"Sure," the boy grinned. "Let's go."
They set off.
Shinji didn't ask what was in the bag. He didn't care. Not really.
It wasn't the contents that mattered. It was the company.
For once, he wasn't alone. No guilt clawing at his throat. No silent apartment. No Asuka with her back turned, barely breathing the same air. Just these two—this boy and girl, squabbling softly, existing like people. They reminded him of Kensuke and Toji back in high school.
Which, in his internal clock, was only a week ago.
But enough of that—he was starting to accept it now. That he'd slept through time. That the world had moved on without him. That he had moved without realizing it.
The trek was long and winding. Not difficult—just eerily familiar. Like the path to Kensuke's shack, but messier. More overgrowth. Shrubs with burrs. Ferns clawing through rusted fencing. The twins walked like people who'd done it a thousand times. No hesitation. No second glances.
Usually a scene like this would come with cicadas. With birdsong. A gentle wind playing backup.
But this was a dead world. No choir. Just the rustle of underbrush and the scrape of their soles on dry earth. The sound of people alive in a place that wasn't.
Shinji kept watching them. The way the two of them moved in sync, always a half-step apart. Familiar and alien. Like notes from a song he used to play on the cello, now warped by dust and years.
He wondered—hadn't really focused on it before, but now he did.
Were they really his age?
The boy was taller than him. Centimetres, sure, but enough to notice. Maybe even taller than Asuka.
And the girl, too. She had a presence that stood just slightly above him, even if only by two centimetres. A meaningless difference that suddenly felt enormous.
And from the back, as the sun broke through the canopy of trees, it hit her hair in a way that made it flare—brighter than brown, richer than auburn.
Almost red.
Almost ginger.
"Here we are," the boy said casually.
And that's when Shinji saw it.
The back of Kensuke's shack.
He stopped walking.
It hit him like a cold wind to the lungs. Not the shack itself—but the angle of it. The way the slope rose and the fencing bent. He knew this place. He'd just left it.
But It felt wrong now. Like the stage had shifted two degrees off centre.
The twins turned to face him.
"What's wrong?" the boy asked, eyebrows raised. "Don't tell me you're scared of her too?"
"She's not that bad once you get to know her," the girl added, almost smiling.
Shinji opened his mouth. "No, it's just—"
He didn't get to finish. The girl had already jogged back, grabbed his wrist like they were old friends, and tugged him forward with ease.
"Come on," she said, voice light.
She had no idea.
And Shinji followed—because his legs moved before his brain could decide.
Because part of him already knew.
They reached the top of the hill just as Asuka stepped out of Kensuke's battered red SUV.
She spotted them immediately. The twins. And then Shinji, trailing behind them like an afterthought.
She walked over, fast. The green bomber jacket was gone, replaced only by the plug suit. Worn like a second skin.
There was irritation in her step. Anger, maybe. Something in her eye—half a glare, half something else. Fear? No. That wasn't right. Not fear. Not from Asuka. But Shinji couldn't name it.
"Hey, old lady!" the boy called, far too loud. "Been a while!"
"You're late," Asuka replied flatly.
"We got caught up," the boy shrugged.
"Somebody didn't wanna help with the cooler boxes," the girl added, nodding toward her brother.
"Oh, come on," he groaned. "Yesterday you-"
"You carried nothing. I almost broke my back."
"Enough," Asuka said—quietly, but it stopped them like a hand on the throat.
She turned toward them. "Do you have my package?"
"Sure do," the boy said, loosening the cloth rope from his neck and handing it to his sister. "This isn't the longest we've gone without seeing you, you know."
"I was on a mission," Asuka replied. Her gaze slid back to Shinji. Sharper now. Sharper than it needed to be.
"To rescue a certain idiotic brat."
She didn't even bother with his name. Just looked at him like he was the last cigarette in the box—and she'd already quit.
The twins turned to Shinji with renewed interest.
"You?" the girl asked, blinking.
"You're the guy," said the boy.
"The guy?" Shinji echoed, lost.
"Thé idiot," the boy clarified.
"She talks about you all the time," the girl said.
"Only when I'm mad," Asuka cut in.
"So basically all the time," the girl said, grinning.
The boy snapped his fingers, mock-surprised. "Should've guessed. Only three Eva pilots I know of, anyway."
Asuka sighed. Just a little. Like even breathing near him cost something.
"You have my package?"
"Yeah," the boy said again, passing it to his sister, who stepped forward and placed it carefully in Asuka's outstretched hand.
It was small. Nothing special. Just a cloth pouch tied at the top with string. But she reached for it slowly—too slowly. Like she was buying time.
"Sorry it's not as strong this time," the girl said. "The old lady must've used a different oil."
"It's fine," Asuka replied, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not sure I'd notice the difference anymore."
She stared at the girl for a second too long.
Her hand lingered where the cloth bag had been.
What's going on? She wondered
She masked it well. Her usual blank soldier-face. But Shinji could see the crack—just a hairline fracture. In her stance. In the way she leaned ever so slightly forward, like she was trying to hold onto something near without touching it.
The boy shifted his weight, swung the empty cooler bag off his shoulder and passed it back to his sister. The moment broke.
Asuka stepped back.
"Where'd you pick him up?" she asked, jerking her chin at Shinji, as if trying to refocus herself.
"Oh, he was going to fish," the girl said. "But he decided to help us carry the boxes."
"He's not as bad as you made him out to be."
"He's worse," Asuka said flatly.
It wasn't playful. It wasn't cruel either. It was a defence. A line drawn with trembling chalk.
Shinji didn't flinch. He didn't smile either. He just stood there, unsure—how long had she been seeing them?
"Oh well," the boy said, scratching the back of his head. "Guess that's about it… we better head back."
"You should thank us," the girl added with mock pride. "We basically showed you another way home."
Shinji opened his mouth—meant to say something clever, maybe even charming. Nothing came. His thoughts were molasses. His breath stuck.
"Are you okay?" the girl asked.
That voice—curious, kind, sharp at the edges. It cut too close. For a moment, he saw her. Not the girl—Asuka. The same tilt of the head. The same concern she'd always buried beneath a frown. It flickered in front of him like a memory trying to override the present.
He shook it off.
"I'm fine," he said, softly. "Thanks."
The boy had already started downhill, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder. "See you on your next order!" he called. "And hey, maybe Shinji'll ask for something next time."
Shinji froze.
She told them my name?
No. That wasn't it. Everyone knew his name. Everyone knew Shinji Ikari—the boy who ended the world. It was just... odd, the way they'd treated him. Kindly. Playfully.
Is that what Rei meant? That people just… like me?
Or is it because Asuka told them? Shaped him in their minds before they'd ever met?
He watched them go. The girl walked just a little ahead, arguing over nothing. Their voices fading. The sound of footsteps on gravel—then nothing.
He turned.
Asuka stood a few steps away, still clutching the cloth bag, not looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the fabric, her thumb running over the stitching like she was trying to memorize it. She brought it slightly closer. Not enough to sniff. Just… near. As if the warmth was what she really wanted.
"Who were they?" he asked.
No answer.
"Asuka," he said again, softer now.
She didn't look at him.
"It's better if you don't know," she said, eyes on the bag. "Your fragile little mind would break."
And just like that, he almost collapsed. His knees gave a whisper beneath him.
"When?" he croaked. "How?"
But she was already walking away. Into the house. The door slid open and closed without ceremony.
Shinji stood in the sun-dusted silence a moment longer before he followed, dragging his limbs like they weren't attached to him.
By the time he reached the main room, she was already halfway into the shower, her plug suit a discarded second skin, hung.
Steam billowed out past the threshold: thick, wet, and alive. It rolled over the wooden floor like fog.
She stood within it, calm and ritualistic— the cloth bag had been left at the nearest desk, and from it came the soap in her hands.
Shinji didn't say a word.
He stopped exactly where he had, days ago. The first time he'd stepped into this house, the second time she'd challenged him.
She hadn't even flinched back then.
The DSS choker gleamed under the vapor, jet black and red. Her body—naked in the haze, more symbol than skin. Shinji stood still, just watching. She wasn't doing anything special, just... showering. But it felt like a ceremony. A reckoning.
Then…he stepped forward.
Asuka turned.
Water dripped from her hair, trailing down her face, neck, and chest. Her arms crossed reflexively across her body, like folding into a defence she'd long since given up on. She stared at him.
Dared him to look.
He didn't. Not really. Not where she thought he would.
He looked at her face. At the eye. The one she still had.
And–
"When?" he asked. The water barely touched him. It felt like it shouldn't. The smell of lavender soap hung in the air—too soft, too clean.
She exhaled, slow, like she'd been holding something in since the world ended.
"You really wanna know?" she said.
He nodded. A small thing. Almost a flinch. A breath leaving a body too tired to house it anymore.
She stared for a moment longer, then spoke.
"After you decided to do nothing, and Unit-01 tore me apart, I figured that was it." She said, calm, too calm. "I thought I was done for, that it was over…for me and them…"
Her voice wavered. Just slightly. Like the world beneath it had shifted.
She swallowed something. Pride? Regret? Blood?
"But then," she said, almost spitting the words, "a miracle happened."
She didn't sound happy.
"They didn't, too," she muttered. Shinji didn't understand at first. But then he did. And it hit like concrete in his gut.
She was fighting something back. Grief, maybe. Or rage. Or whatever's left when both burn out. The water disguised it well—masked it in ritual, in warmth. Asuka's voice turned brittle.
"I was underage at the time... It's stupid. What we did."
"Asuka—"
"Shut up."
Soft. Final. Like a lullaby laced with cyanide.
"I still fought. I don't know why. Maybe I was trying to run. Maybe part of me was just... scared."
She paused, the kind of pause that takes the last of your strength. Shinji saw it, knew it cost her—especially in front of him. The one who'd watched. Who'd done nothing. Who had survived anyway.
"Eventually, the time came," she said. "And it was done in secret. Misato, Ritsuko and a handful of doctors, they're the only ones who know."
Her voice cracked.
"It was a C-section. This body it... it couldn't have…"
She staggered mid-sentence. The weight of it all, dragging her under.
Shinji reached out. Instinct. Guilt in motion.
But she slapped his hand away like it burned.
"Don't touch me," she hissed.
"Don't… just… don't."
She was trembling now. But not from the heat. Not from weakness.
No, this was something else. A shaking soul.
Shinji didn't move.
He just stood there, burning in silence. Not from shame. Not from fear.
From understanding.
And the weight of what he couldn't undo.
"Do they know?" he asked, finally. A whisper. An offering.
"No." She shook her head. "They don't…"
There was a silence, brief but suffocating. Then she spoke again, quieter now—like each word was another piece of her splintering ribcage.
"I hated them at first," she said. "Every time I looked at them, all I saw was your stupid face. Your cowardice. Your idiotic... indecisive... cowardice."
She said it twice. Not a mistake. A scar.
She swallowed—visibly this time. He caught it, and for some reason, it hurt worse than if she'd screamed.
"But I loved them." Her voice thinned, faltered. "I couldn't stop. They were mine. I carried them. I..."
One step. Just one. That's all he took.
No closer. He didn't deserve closer.
Behind the eyepatch, something shimmered. The Angel. Blue light seeping through like a memory that refused to die.
"All these years…" he asked, barely breathing, "You've been watching them grow?"
And she almost smiled.
Almost.
"I'm just some old lady," she said, and the phrase hit like a brick wrapped in silk. "He calls me that. 'Old lady.' I used to call him 'kid,' back when he was still... small."
A chuckle, dry as ash. "I stood there. Taking packages from their hands like a stranger. Pretending.
While this body refused to grow. Stayed locked in time… Fourteen years…Trapped."
Fourteen years of standing still while the world marched on without her.
Then, softly—like a knife made of glass:
"They're not yours."
He blinked. Pain does that—makes you slow.
"But—"
"They're mine." Her voice cracked. Not a break, just a fracture. A warning.
"They're mine... Don't ruin this… too."
She didn't say "please."
She didn't have to.
He didn't respond. He couldn't.
He just stood there in the fog and the heat. In the terrible weight of history.
Wanting to reach out.
Knowing he shouldn't.
Knowing it wouldn't matter.