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Darkness. Then light. Painful, blinding light.

You blink. Your eyes haven't opened in centuries. The sword in your chest pulses with each attempted breath. You can't move your arms. Vines have grown through your limbs, anchoring you to the stone altar where the angels left you to suffer eternally.

The chamber remains silent except for water dripping somewhere in the distance. You stopped counting the drops long ago. The walls of your prison still bear the angelic sigils that keep you bound. Their light has dimmed over the centuries, but their power remains.

You remember the day they brought you here. Seven winged figures, their faces too bright to look upon directly. They called you abomination. Anomaly. They couldn't destroy you, your existence was woven too deeply into the fabric of reality, so they chose to imprison you instead. The sword through your chest drains your power continuously, feeding it into the earth.

A crack appears in the ceiling. Small pebbles fall. The crack widens.

The ceiling collapses. A figure tumbles through the opening with a startled yell, landing hard on the stone floor. Dust billows around him.

When the air clears, you see him clearly. A boar-man lies there, about five feet tall, with bristly brown fur and a snout that twitches as he coughs out dust. He wears leather armor patched in multiple places and carries a pack that spilled open when he fell, scattering climbing gear and old parchments across the floor.

He sits up, rubbing his head. "That wasn't on the map." His voice is unexpectedly cheerful despite the fall.

The boar-man freezes when he spots you. His eyes widen, and he scrambles backward until his back hits the wall.

"What in the seven hells?" he whispers, staring at your form pinned to the altar. His hand moves to the short sword at his belt, but he doesn't draw it.

He stays pressed against the wall for nearly a minute, watching you for any movement. When you remain still, his curiosity seems to overcome his fear. He inches forward, collecting his scattered belongings without taking his eyes off you.

"Are you... alive?" he asks, approaching cautiously. He stops several feet away, studying the sword in your chest, the vines growing through your limbs, the faded sigils on the floor.

You try to respond, but can only manage a raspy breath.

The boar-man jumps at the sound. "You are alive! Or... something like alive." He circles the altar, keeping his distance. "I was just looking for treasure. The old maps mentioned an ancient blade, but nothing about... you."

He notices the gems on the sword's hilt, still glowing faintly. Greed and caution war in his expression.

"That sword... is that what the legends meant?" He steps closer, then stops again. "Who are you? What are you?"

You cannot answer. Centuries of silence have stolen your voice.

The chamber shudders. Dust falls from the ceiling again. The boar-man looks up nervously.

"That can't be good." He glances between you and the sword, making a decision. "Look, I'm probably going to regret this, but..."

He approaches quickly now and grasps the hilt of the sword. He pulls, but it doesn't budge.

"It's really in there," he grunts, bracing one hooved foot against the altar for leverage. He pulls harder.

The sword slides out with a sound like tearing fabric. Energy rushes back into the void it leaves. Your lungs expand fully for the first time in eons.

The boar-man stumbles backward, nearly falling. "Whoa!"

The vines holding you begin to crack. Your fingers twitch.

"Oh no," the boar-man says, backing away with the sword. "Are you going to kill me now? Because that would be a really disappointing end to my day."

The chamber shakes more violently. Larger chunks of stone fall from the ceiling.

"I'm Dwaint, by the way," he says, still backing toward the chamber entrance. "Just in case you're making a mental list of who not to murder."

You manage to lift your head, meeting his eyes directly.

Dwaint stops. Something in your gaze holds him in place. "Can you... can you walk? Because I think this whole place is coming down, and I'd rather not be here when it does."

The chamber continues to shake. Your limbs break free from the withered vines. You slide off the altar, legs unsteady after centuries of disuse. You collapse to your knees on the cold stone floor.

Dwaint hesitates, looking between you and the exit. The sword in his hands glows brighter now, separated from your chest.

"Oh, come on," he mutters to himself. He shoves the sword through his belt and hurries to your side. "Put your arm around me. Quickly now."

Your arm feels heavy as you raise it. Dwaint ducks under it, supporting your weight despite being smaller than you. His bristly fur brushes against your side.

"You're lighter than you look," he grunts, helping you stand. "This way."

He guides you toward a narrow passage different from the one where you heard footsteps earlier. The tremors grow stronger. Behind you, the altar cracks in half.

"Mind the steps," Dwaint says, navigating you through the darkness. His eyes reflect what little light filters through cracks in the ceiling. "Don't worry, I memorized the way out. Mostly."

You stumble together through winding passages. Dwaint keeps talking, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

"Been tracking this place for months. Legends mentioned an angel blade, worth a fortune to the right collector. Nobody said anything about a person being skewered by it." He glances up at you. "You are a person, right? Or something like one?"

The passage opens into a larger chamber. Sunlight streams through a hole in the ceiling. The brightness hurts your eyes.

"Almost there," Dwaint says. "Just need to climb up. Can you manage it?"

Before you can try, voices echo from behind you. Dwaint's ears twitch.

"Guards," he whispers. "Change of plans."

He pulls you behind a fallen column. Moments later, armored figures rush through the passage you just exited. They carry torches and weapons, shouting to each other about intruders and tremors.

Dwaint waits until they pass into another corridor. "That was close. Now, about that climb..."

He produces a rope with a grappling hook from his pack and tosses it upward. It catches on something above. He tugs it twice to test it.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and ancient beings first," he says with a small bow, offering you the rope.

You take it, muscles remembering movement. The climb is difficult but manageable as strength returns to your limbs. Dwaint follows close behind.

You emerge onto grass, real grass. The sun hangs low in the sky. Trees surround a clearing. Birds sing. The sensations overwhelm you after so long in darkness.

Dwaint pulls himself up beside you. "Well, that was exciting! And we're not dead, which exceeds my usual expectations for these jobs."

He watches you take in the world, your first glimpse of it in centuries. His initial caution gives way to curiosity.

"You've been down there a while, haven't you?" he asks, sitting cross-legged on the grass. "The world's probably changed a bit since then."

He reaches into his pack and pulls out a water skin. He offers it to you first. When you take it, your fingers brush his hooved hand. You drink. The water tastes sweeter than anything you remember.

"I've got a camp nearby," Dwaint says. "Not much, but there's food and a fire. You're welcome to it. Seems the least I can offer after, you know, pulling a sword out of your chest."

His camp sits nestled between tall oaks. A small tent, a fire pit, cooking supplies. Simple but orderly. Dwaint moves around it, starting a fire as evening approaches.

"Hungry?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before preparing food. "Everyone's hungry after being impaled for who knows how long."

He hands you a bowl of stew. The smell makes your mouth water. You haven't needed food for centuries, but the desire for it returns instantly.

"So," Dwaint says, settling across from you with his own bowl. "I'm guessing there's a story here. Angels, sealed away, magic sword. Classic elements of trouble I probably should have avoided."

He studies you over the rim of his bowl. "But you don't seem intent on destroying the world or eating my soul, which is refreshing."

As darkness falls, Dwaint lights a lantern. The soft glow illuminates his features. His initial wariness has faded, replaced by genuine interest.

"Tomorrow we'll reach Thornhill," he says. "Small town, but they have proper baths and beds. And clothes." He glances at your tattered garments. "No offense, but you're a bit conspicuous at the moment."

He reaches into his pack again and pulls out a cloak. "Here. It's not much, but it'll help you blend in."

The fabric feels impossibly soft against your skin. A simple kindness, but it affects you deeply.

Over the next days, Dwaint becomes your guide to a changed world. In Thornhill, he purchases clothes for you, experimenting with styles until finding ones that fit your unusual form.

"Try this," he says, handing you a shirt of deep blue. "The color suits you."

At an inn, he introduces you to foods you've never tasted. He watches with delight as you experience each new flavor.

"The look on your face!" he laughs when you try spiced wine for the first time. "Priceless."

He brings you books, one after another. Some about history, others filled with stories.

"This might help explain what's happened while you were... away," he says, placing a heavy tome before you. Later, he brings lighter reading. "This one's just for fun. Everyone needs stories."

When you finish each book, Dwaint asks questions, eager to hear your thoughts. He listens intently to your halting responses as your voice slowly returns.

One evening, in a quiet corner of the inn, he attempts a spell from a book he's acquired.

"I'm not much of a mage," he admits, concentrating on forming the correct hand positions. "But this one's supposed to be simple."

The spell, meant to create light, produces only a brief spark before fizzling out. Dwaint looks disappointed until he sees your expression.

"You found that amusing, didn't you?" he asks, smiling despite his failure. "Well, at least I've discovered your sense of humor."

Days turn into weeks. Dwaint shows no hurry to part ways. The sword, the reason for his original quest, remains wrapped and untouched in his pack.

"We could head east," he suggests one morning over breakfast. "There's a festival in Merrow this time of year. Music, dancing, food from all over. Might be interesting for you to see how people celebrate now."

His eyes light up when describing places he's visited, adventures he's had. He speaks of mountains that touch the clouds, cities built on water, forests where the trees sing in the wind.

"Would you like to see them?" he asks. "I could show you."

At night, when darkness brings memories of your prison, Dwaint seems to sense your unease. He stays awake, telling stories until you grow calm again.

"I used to be afraid of the dark too," he confesses one such night. "Still am, sometimes. Nothing wrong with that, after what you've been through."

Gradually, his initial caution transforms into something else. He begins to stand closer to you, to touch your arm when pointing out something interesting, to laugh more freely in your presence.

"You know," he says one evening as you watch the sunset together, "I came looking for treasure, but I think I found something better. A friend."

Friend. Such a simple concept, yet one you'd forgotten could exist.

Dwaint turns to you, his eyes reflecting the golden light of sunset. "What do you say we stick together a while longer? The world's a big place. Better not to face it alone."

The bare bulb swings overhead, casting moving shadows across the concrete floor. The chair beneath you creaks with each movement.

You taste blood in your mouth. Your wrists burn against the rope binding them to the wooden armrests. The room smells of mildew and cigar smoke.

The boar-man stands before you, his silhouette massive against the single light source. His suit jacket hangs on a hook by the door. His white shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms covered in coarse hair. A shoulder holster carries his service revolver.

"Let's try again," he says, his voice surprisingly soft. He takes a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing bright orange in the dim room. "Where's the shipment?"

You remain silent. Your body trembles despite your efforts to appear calm.

Detective Dwaint sighs. He steps closer. The floorboards creak under his weight.

"You have what I need," he says. He leans down, bringing his snout close to your face. His breath smells of whiskey and tobacco. "Just a few words, and this ends."

The cigar moves toward your arm. You try to pull away, but the ropes hold you firmly in place. The burning tip presses against your bare skin.

Pain spreads through your nerve endings. You smell your own flesh burning.

"Don't fight it," Dwaint says, watching your reaction with detached interest. "You'll save lives."

He lifts the cigar, leaving a perfect circle of charred skin. It joins three others already marking your arm.

Dwaint turns away and walks to a small table in the corner. Metal instruments gleam under the swinging light. He selects a black medical bag and returns to stand before you.

"The children they took," he continues, opening the bag methodically. "They'll be sold by morning if we don't find them."

He removes items one by one, arranging them on a small rolling tray beside your chair. Scalpels of various sizes. Forceps. A bone saw. Syringes filled with clear liquid.

"My captain thinks you're just a courier," Dwaint says, examining a scalpel, turning it so it catches the light. "But I know better. You're connected. You know where they are."

He places the surgical instruments in a neat row in front of you.

"Don't make this harder for yourself," he says.

You try to speak, but your throat constricts. Hours without water have left your mouth dry.

Dwaint picks up the smallest scalpel. The blade looks almost delicate in his large, hooved hand.

"I don't enjoy this," he tells you. His eyes meet yours. "But those kids don't have time for me to be civilized."

He takes your arm, his grip firm but not crushing. The blade hovers over your skin, just below the elbow.

"Last chance," he whispers.

When you don't respond, the scalpel touches your skin. The initial cut is almost painless, just cold pressure. Then the blade moves upward in a straight line toward your wrist.

Blood wells up immediately, running in thin stream down your arm and dripping onto the floor. The pain follows a moment later.

"The warehouse location," Dwaint says, his voice steady. "That's all I need."

He makes another cut, parallel to the first. Your vision blurs.

"They'll kill those children," Dwaint continues. "But first, they'll hurt them in ways that make this seem merciful."

The scalpel moves again. A third line, connecting the first two. The pattern becomes clear, he's carving a letter into your skin. The letter 'H'.

"Every minute we waste here," he says, starting on what appears to be an 'E', "is another minute those kids suffer."

Blood pools in the crook of your arm. The room begins to spin slowly.

"You're going to tell me eventually," Dwaint says, his voice distant now as shock sets in. "Everyone does. The only question is how much of you will be left when you do."

He sets down the scalpel and picks up a small bottle. Without warning, he pours its contents over the cuts. The liquid burns like, jerking you back from the edge of unconsciousness.

"Alcohol," he explains unnecessarily. "Can't have you getting infected before we're done."

He returns to his work with the scalpel. Letter by letter, a message forms in your flesh: HELP THEM.

"You know what happens to informants in this town," Dwaint says, wiping your blood from the blade. "I understand your fear. But those children didn't choose this life."

He sets down the scalpel and picks up a syringe. The needle glints in the light.

"This will make you talk," he says, tapping the syringe to remove air bubbles. "But it also damages the brain. Permanently. Truth serum isn't as clean as the movies make it seem."

He positions the needle above the vein in your neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and for a moment, you believe him. His eyes show genuine regret. "I really am. But I need that address now."

The needle pierces your skin.

A drop of blood appears at the injection site.

You scream. The sound tears through the basement.

Dwaint's hand begins to shake. The syringe remains half-empty, the plunger stopped midway.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he repeats, his voice cracking. He yanks the needle out and throws the syringe across the room. It shatters against the wall.

His breathing comes fast and shallow. Sweat beads on his snout. He steps back, staring at your bleeding arm, the burns, the carved letters.

"What am I doing?" he whispers. His large hands tremble violently.

Dwaint rushes to the corner table, knocking over the medical bag in his haste. Supplies scatter across the floor. He returns with a first aid kit, fumbling with the clasp.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," he repeats, the words running together. He pours antiseptic onto clean gauze and dabs at the cuts he made. His touch is gentle, a complete contrast to minutes before.

You flinch from the sting. Dwaint makes a small, wounded sound in response.

"I know it hurts. I know. I'm sorry." Tears form in his eyes, matting the fur beneath them. "This isn't- I'm not-"

His hands shake so badly he drops the gauze. He kneels to retrieve it, then remains there, on his knees before you.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he says, voice breaking. "The case isn't worth this. Nothing is worth this."

He wraps bandages around your arm, covering his handiwork. His movements are practiced, he's done this before, tended wounds he's inflicted.

"I became the thing I swore to fight," he says, securing the bandage with medical tape. "I thought I was different. Special. Justified." He laughs bitterly. "The hero's delusion."

Dwaint moves to your other arm and begins untying the ropes. The knots are tight, cutting into your wrists. He works them loose with trembling fingers.

"I've been doing this job too long," he says quietly. "Started seeing people as pieces on a board. Means to an end." The rope falls away, revealing raw, chafed skin beneath.

He unties your ankles next, then stands back, giving you space. You remain seated, too weak to stand.

"The door's unlocked," he says, gesturing toward the exit. "You can go. I won't stop you."

Instead of moving toward freedom, you slump forward in the chair. Dwaint catches you before you hit the floor.

"Easy," he says, supporting your weight. "The drugs in your system need time to clear."

He lifts you carefully, cradling you against his chest like something precious, not the suspect he was torturing minutes ago. Your head rests against his shoulder.

"You don't deserve this," he whispers, holding you tightly. "Nobody does."

His arms encircle you fully, protective now rather than restraining. You feel his heart hammering in his chest, his body shaking with suppressed emotion.

"I'll find another way," he promises. "There has to be another way."

He carries you to a cot in the corner of the room. The sheets are clean, incongruously white in the grimy basement. He lays you down with unexpected tenderness.

"Rest," he says, pulling a blanket over you. "When you're stronger, I'll take you somewhere safe."

Dwaint sits on the floor beside the cot. He removes his shoulder holster and places his gun far out of reach.

"I keep seeing their faces," he says after a long silence. "The missing children. Every time I close my eyes." He rubs his hooved hands over his face. "But that doesn't justify what I did to you."

His shoulders begin to shake. The composed detective breaks apart before your eyes.

"I promised myself I'd never become like him," Dwaint says through tears. "My father. He solved problems with his fists. I swore I'd be different."

He looks at his hands.

"I'm sorry," he says again, the words inadequate against what has transpired. "I don't expect forgiveness. Don't deserve it."

He reaches out hesitantly, then stops, unsure if his touch would be welcome. After a moment, he simply places his hand near yours on the cot, not touching, but close.

"When you're ready," he says softly, "I'll take you home. Or wherever you want to go. And then I'll turn myself in. This ends tonight."

The single bulb continues to swing overhead, shining alternating light and shadow across his face. He looks nothing like the detective who carved words into your flesh. He looks lost.

The message on your watch illuminates the darkness of your sleeping pod: "meet me at the bridge after 3rd sleep cycle." Dwaint's name flashes beside it. No explanation.

The ship hums around you as you make your way through curved corridors. Other colonists pass by, most wearing the standard gray jumpsuits with colored patches indicating their division. Agricultural. Medical. Engineering. Everyone has their place on the journey to Kepler-438b.

The bridge section normally remains restricted to navigation officers and command staff. As you approach, you spot Dwaint waiting by the entrance. He stands straighter when he sees you, quickly smoothing down his jumpsuit. The engineering patch on his sleeve is slightly messy from long shifts maintaining the ship's oxygen recyclers.

"You came!" His snout twitches with excitement. "Come, come." He gestures for you to follow, looking both ways down the corridor first.

Instead of heading to the bridge itself, he leads you to a side passage. At the end stands a door marked "Observatory Deck - Authorized Personnel Only."

Dwaint pulls out an access card that definitely doesn't belong to a mid-level engineer. He swipes it through the reader. The light turns green.

"I got my ways," he says with a smug smile, ushering you inside before the door can close automatically.

The observatory deck stretches before you, completely empty of people. The ceiling and far wall consist entirely of transparent panels, offering an unobstructed view of space. The ship's exterior lights are dimmed on this side, allowing the natural celestial light to dominate.

Dwaint drags a bench from the wall, positioning it directly in front of the largest viewing panel. The metal feet scrape against the floor, the sound echoing in the empty chamber.

"Join me," he says, patting the spot beside him.

You sit down. The bench is cold through your jumpsuit. Dwaint sits close enough that your shoulders touch.

He taps on his watch, bringing up the control interface. After entering a code, the protective shield covering the exterior of the viewing panel retracts.

The view transforms instantly. The ship is passing through the heart of a nebula. Purple gases swirl outside, illuminated by distant stars. Particles of cosmic dust catch the light, creating the illusion of glitter suspended in space. The colors shift constantly, deep violet to pale lavender, with streaks of blue cutting through the haze.

Dwaint watches your reaction rather than the view. His eyes reflect the nebula's glow.

"Worth breaking a few rules for, right?" he asks quietly.

He reaches into his pocket and removes something wrapped in silver foil. His hooved fingers carefully unfold the packaging to reveal a dark brown rectangle.

"A chocolate bar," he says, breaking it in half. "I saved for a good while."

The scent reaches you immediately, rich, sweet, nothing like the bland nutrient blocks distributed in the mess hall. Chocolate is luxury contraband on the colony ship, reserved for command staff and special occasions.

Dwaint offers you the larger half. When you take it, his fingers linger near yours momentarily before withdrawing.

The chocolate melts on your tongue. Real sugar, real cocoa. Not synthetic. The taste is overwhelming after months of functional food designed only to sustain life, not bring pleasure.

Dwaint savors his piece slowly, making it last. When he finishes, he shifts position, resting his head against your shoulder. His weight feels solid, warm. His bristly fur tickles your neck.

Outside, the nebula continues its slow dance. The ship's movement creates the illusion that the cosmic clouds are parting for your passage.

"You know," Dwaint says after a long silence, "I've always wanted to be a writer."

He keeps his eyes on the stars as he speaks.

"Growing up, I filled notebooks with stories. Worlds I invented. Characters who felt more real to me than most people." He chuckles softly. "My father found them once. He tore them up. Said imagination wouldn't put food on the table."

His voice carries no bitterness, just a simple acknowledgment of how life unfolded.

"Three generations of my family worked in engineering. Practical work. Useful work. My sister designed the air filters I maintain now." He pauses. "I still write sometimes. At night. Little stories about worlds we'll never see."

You feel him take a deep breath.

"Back on Earth, I lived in this tiny apartment. Worked a job I hated. Surrounded by people but always alone." His voice drops lower. "I'd come home and just... create. Characters who understood me. Who saw me. Not the person everyone expected me to be, but who I really was."

His hand finds yours on the bench between you. His fingers intertwine with yours, cautious at first, then with gentle pressure.

"I signed up for this colony mission thinking I'd leave everything behind. Start fresh." He laughs quietly. "Didn't expect to bring my old habits with me. Still hiding in my pod after shifts, still creating worlds and people in my head."

The nebula begins to thin as the ship moves toward its outer edges. Stars become more visible, flicker of light against the darkness.

"But then I met you," he continues, his voice growing softer. "And for the first time, reality was better than anything I could imagine. You listen. You understand. You see me."

He lifts his head to look at you directly.

"I've created so many characters in my stories, trying to find connection. Now I'm glad I get to meet you instead." His eyes shine in the purple light of the nebula. "You're real. And that makes all the difference."

Dwaint squeezes your hand gently.

"We reach Kepler in fifty-three days. New world. New start." He takes a deep breath. "I was wondering if... if you might want to request adjacent habitation units when we land. The colonization committee approves most housing requests for... for pairs."

His ears twitch nervously as he waits for your response. The vastness of space stretches beyond the glass, full of possibility and unknown futures.

"I don't want to just write about connection anymore," he whispers. "I want to live through it, with you."

You stand in the kitchen, knife moving through vegetables. The cutting board collects thin slices of onions, carrots, and cabbage. Steam rises from the pot on the stove where chicken broth simmers. The apartment fills with the warm scent of dinner preparing itself.

The rain begins outside, gentle taps against the window that gradually intensify. The weather forecast didn't mention rain. The sky darkens earlier than usual.

The television provides background noise while you cook. A news anchor with perfect hair speaks in practiced tones about economic downturns. Three major tech companies announced layoffs today. A bank closed seventeen branches nationwide. Experts predict more to follow.

Dwaint's company hasn't been mentioned, but worry settles in your stomach anyway. He's been working later and later. Coming home exhausted. Checking his phone constantly for emails from management.

The soup needs to simmer for another thirty minutes. You adjust the heat and move to the living room window. The street below shines with rain, headlights reflecting off wet pavement. People hurry past with umbrellas or newspapers held over their heads.

A knock at the door interrupts the rhythm of raindrops.

You open it to find Dwaint standing in the hallway. Water drips from his fur onto the carpet. His normally neat appearance has deteriorated. His suit jacket hangs unevenly on his shoulders. His white shirt clings to his chest, partially soaked through. He holds his phone in one hand, screen still glowing.

His eyes meet yours. Something in his gaze seems different tonight.

"Sorry I didn't call," he says, voice hoarse. "My phone was... I was..." He stops, shakes his head. "Can I come in?"

He steps inside without waiting for an answer, leaving damp footprints on the entryway floor. The scent of rain follows him. He doesn't remove his shoes or jacket as he usually would. He doesn't comment on the cooking smell from the kitchen.

"Is that soup?" he asks, but continues before you can respond. "You always make soup on rainy days. You remember everything, don't you? Every little detail."

You reach to take his briefcase, but he shakes his head.

"No, don't." He steps back, clutching the briefcase tighter. "I need to say something first."

His breathing quickens. He sets the briefcase down carefully.

"You've helped me," he says, his voice strained. He reaches for your hand and places it against his chest. His heartbeat feels rapid beneath your palm. "Through so many things."

Your confusion must show on your face. Dwaint has never acted like this before.

"The layoffs at work," he continues. "The fight with my father. That night I came home so broken I couldn't even speak." His eyes look red-rimmed, exhausted. "You never judged. Never pushed. You simply listened."

You search for signs he's been drinking, but his gaze remains clear. There's no scent of alcohol on his breath.

"Even at my lowest, you were there to listen," he says. His gaze fixes on you with an intensity that makes you step back slightly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

You tilt your head, questioning. The soup bubbles on the stove behind you, but Dwaint's behavior makes it impossible to return to cooking.

His grip on your hand tightens. His hooved fingers press into your skin almost painfully. A tear forms in the corner of his eye.

He releases your hand and runs his fingers through the damp fur on his head.

"I've been lying to myself," he whispers. "Creating this perfect relationship. This perfect you."

You take a step toward him, concern evident in your movement.

"No, please," Dwaint says, holding up his hand. "Don't make this harder. You're always so kind, so understanding. That's the problem."

He pulls his phone from his pocket, looks down at the screen, then back at you.

"I think it's time for me to move on," he says.

Your hand goes still at your side.

"I need to start living in the real world," Dwaint continues, voice breaking. "Meet real people. Have real conversations. Even if they're messy and uncomfortable."

Dwaint watches your expression change. He sees the confusion in your eyes, the slight parting of your lips in silent question.

"I'll miss you," he says softly. "God, I'll miss you so much."

Rain beats harder against the windows. The television continues its economic predictions in the background. A drop of water falls from Dwaint's fur onto the floor between you.

"You were exactly what I needed," Dwaint says. "But that's not how healthy relationships work. Real people challenge each other. Disagree. Grow together."

He looks around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time.

"I've been talking to myself for so long," he whispers. "Answering my own questions. Creating both sides of every conversation."

He stares at you, sighing.

"I want to say goodbye."