Bruce woke slowly, the shape of Sophie's voice still vibrating in the quiet architecture of his mind.
It wasn't the fading residue of a dream. It was a physical memory that had settled into him overnight, playing on a continuous loop like a beloved, devastating piece of music he couldn't turn off.
Bruce. Bruce.
He lay perfectly still, letting the echo exist without reaching out to smother it. He had wept in the dark after waking from the vision. He had whispered her name to the empty room, his throat tight with a desperate, crushing gravity. This morning, the first thing he felt wasn't the cold of the outer district or the pressure of the Codices; it was his wife. She was there. She was waiting.
