I lean back in the chair and let my head tip against it. My neck aches. The tea warms my palms. The proposal drafts stare up at me like a jury of exhausted civic ideals.
“The memorial invitation,” he says.
I close my eyes for one second, then open them again. “Yeah.”
“Will you go?”
Notare you able. Notdo you want to. Notshould you. Just the clean question.
I stare at the invitation.
Civilian casualty representative.
The phrase is so clinical it almost makes me laugh. As if grief can be delegated. As if loss needs a representative rather than a wall big enough to hold all of it.
“I don’t want to be useful to them again,” I say quietly.
Rhyx is silent for a moment. I can feel him there beside me, solid and warm and patient in a way that still unsettles me when I let myself notice it too long.
“At the tribunal,” he says at last, “you were useful to yourself first.”
I look at him.
He goes on, voice low. “The institution attempted to use you. That is not the same thing as succeeding.”
The rain intensifies for a minute, drumming harder against the glass. Headlights ripple across the wet window from the transit lane below, then slide away. The apartment smells like tea, paper, and the faint resin-clean scent of the relief-network tablets he set down.
I turn back to the projection.
If I had stayed silent, the doctrine would still be buried. Kirell would still belong to euphemism. My parents’ names would be data points in a sealed file. Rhyx would be a convicted symbol. Vol would be free.
No.
I can’t give fear that kind of retroactive dignity.
I reach for the invitation, flatten it on the table, and pick up my stylus.
Rhyx says nothing.
Not a single persuasive word. Not a warning. Not a reassurance. He just stays beside me, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table, close enough that I can feel his presence like a steadying field.
I write my response directly into the return form.
I will attend.
My hand does not shake.
I send it.
The confirmation pings back almost immediately. Received. Logged. Public liaison office copied. Of course they were waiting.
I let out a breath and realize only then how hard my lungs have been working around this decision.
Rhyx looks at the response screen, then at me.
“That will be unpleasant,” he says.
“Yeah.”
