Atlas woke once in the night.
The room was dark except for the thin silver of river light through the window. For a moment the ceiling felt too low, the silence too complete.
He sat up, heart steady but unfamiliar with the absence of monitors and residual-pressure alerts. The third stair creaked exactly as Clara had promised.
Downstairs the kitchen lamp was still lit. Eli sat at the table with a cup of something that steamed faintly—mint tea, from the smell. She looked up when he appeared, unsurprised.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked.
He shook his head and took the empty chair across from her. The house was quiet. Soft footsteps moved upstairs; Lara or Clara turning over in sleep. Eli pushed the second cup toward him without asking.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. The tea was strong and clean. Atlas wrapped both hands around the cup and let the heat settle into his palms.
