The Chronicle’s pages flutter despite no wind. More text appears:
The next attempt approaches. Choose joy or choose fear. But choose.
From the basement, the foundation stone’s voice booms: “FINALLY! IT’S ABOUT CHOICE, NOT JUST TRUST!”
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” Rianne accuses.
“THE STONE IS LITERALLY THE FOUNDATION! THE STONE FEELS EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THIS BUILDING!”
Carl appears, holding a new sign: “CARL BELIEVES IN RIANNE’S ABILITY TO CHOOSE JOY.”
“Thanks, Carl,” Rianne says, and she sounds genuinely touched.
Keith slides over with a laptop made of shadows. “Keith has prepared a presentation about choosing joy in the workplace!”
“How many slides?” I ask.
“Seventeen! Keith showed restraint!”
“That’s character growth,” Rianne says, and Keith practically glows with pride.
Mister Poofypants the Third walks past, dragging something. It’s a shadow, but not a dead one—this one appears to be following willingly, like a pet.
“Did my cat adopt a shadow?” Rianne asks.
The cat meows proudly. The shadow waves.
“We’re not keeping it,” I say.
“We?” Rianne looks at me, and there’s something soft in her expression.
“Slip of the tongue.”
“Liar. Your ear’s doing the thing.”
She’s right. My tell has become obvious to her in just two days. Two days, and she knows me better than anyone has in centuries.
“Stenrik?”
“Yes?”
“Tonight, when we try again... I’m going to choose. For real this time.”
“This is our second attempt,” I confirm. “We have tonight, and then the solstice if needed. Three chances total.”
“We spent eighteen hours planning to practice the mechanics.” She laughs softly. “But the mechanics aren’t the problem, are they?”
“No. The problem is choosing to trust. Choosing to be vulnerable.”
“Choosing joy over fear.” She nods toward the Chronicle. “That’s what it keeps saying.”
She takes a breath. “Even if I mess it up. Even if I’m not good enough. Even if it all goes wrong.”
The temperature in the room rises slightly—or perhaps we just stop noticing the cold. The ice patterns on the windows shift from fractals to flowers. The Chronicle glows so bright we have to look away.
“THE STONE APPROVES!” booms from the basement. “THE STONE IS PLAYING CELELEBRATION MUSIC!”
Indeed, “We Are the Champions” starts echoing through the vents.
