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Chapter 38: The Curve of Quiet Things
Mornings began with citrus.
Lina would appear at his window just after sunrise, barefoot, holding oranges and wild mint from the ridge above the village. No announcement. No plan.
Just presence.
Matteo would make tea. She would sketch. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they didn't.
It felt like music without melody—something deeper than language.
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They developed rituals.
At noon: they'd walk to the cove with bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine they never finished.
At dusk: they'd sit by the old cistern and take turns telling lies. Good lies. Playful ones.
> "I once swam across the Adriatic in a thunderstorm."
"I taught a pigeon how to solve a maze."
"I used to be famous."
That last one was Matteo's.
Lina laughed.
"You're the worst liar I've ever met."
"I'm the best," he said. "You just don't believe in mystery."
She looked at him sideways.
"Maybe I believe in people who want to be someone else for a while."
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At night, they lit candles.
Not because the power was out—but because darkness needed warmth, not fluorescence.
Lina told him about her childhood in a city she never named. Her love of ocean sounds. Her fear of glass breaking. The way she carried certain griefs in her jaw.
Matteo didn't press.
He just listened.
Because for once, he wasn't the one people were listening to.
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And slowly, Matteo began to forget.
Not permanently. But enough.
He stopped checking Aegis.
Stopped rehearsing speeches in his head.
Stopped waking up ready to fight.
His heart started beating slower. Not weaker—just... more honestly.
He cooked meals that didn't need praise.
He laughed at jokes that weren't clever.
He stood still.
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One morning, as they sat on a flat stone above the sea, Lina handed him something.
A sketch.
It was of his hands. Holding something that wasn't there.
"What am I carrying?" he asked.
She shrugged. "That's your question to answer."
He smiled. "Maybe it's nothing."
"Maybe it's everything."
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That evening, she leaned against him in the water, the horizon blazing behind them.
"You're not like the others," she murmured.
"Others?"
"Men who run the world. They move fast. You… pause."
"I didn't used to."
"I don't believe that."
He turned to her.
"I'm trying."
She kissed him.
Not like a reward.
Like a confession.
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That night, in the candlelight, Matteo reached for the blank Aeon token again.
His hand lingered over it for a long time.
Then he set it down.
Still blank.
Still waiting.
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But elsewhere—far from candles and waves—a man with graying temples reviewed Lina's report.
The name on the dossier was scrubbed.
Just a codename: VEIL-9.
Underneath it:
> Status: Subject emotionally softened.
Behavioral exposure likely within 72h.
Proceed with Phase Two.
And at the bottom, in red:
> "Ensure Subject S does not activate fallback memory trace. If compromised, erase emotional anchor."
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Lina stood in her room that night staring at the communicator.
She didn't press the button.
Not yet.
She looked at the sketch again.
The one of Matteo's hands, holding nothing.
And whispered, "I don't know what I'm doing."
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End of Chapter 38