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“The grave markers give that away.”
“And you can probably sense the people.”
“That, too.I was trying to be sensitive.”
Despite the grief weighing at her, she couldn’t help but smile.“I appreciate that.”She fixed her gaze on the flat ocean rock.“They were in the community center when the quake happened.That building was the oldest, and it took the worst hit.No one in there survived after the ceiling came down on them.”
“Hannah...”
She couldn’t keep herself from talking.It was weird; she’d been avoiding thinking about it since she’d hauled the rock over, keeping herself busy harvesting failing crops.“There was supposed to be a big meeting that day about cattle or something.I was running late, otherwise I would’ve been in there too.Instead, I was on the path when the ground started to shake.I thought it would split open, and I’d fall right through.”Her vision went blurry and she realized she was crying.“Half that building was stone.Heavy as shit.The roof was this old heavy material from the old world.I don’t know what it was called.But it flattened everyone.They never had a chance.”
For a few moments, the only sounds were of Rhys’s quiet, measured breaths and her sobs.She appreciated that he wasn’t telling her that the quake wasn’t her fault or she shouldn’t feel guilty for living through it when so many New Edeners hadn’t.“I didn’t even have the strength to bury them myself,” she added.“Jasmine helped with that.I couldn’t bring myself to haul them out of the rubble, either.”
He still didn’t reply, only tentatively reached one of his gloved hands to hers, squeezing her fingers.“Do you visit them often?”he finally asked.
“Not as often as a good daughter should.”
“Is there a manual for how the adult children of late parents are supposed to behave?”
The question was so ridiculous that Hannah smiled through her tears.“If there is, it was probably burned as kindling.”
Rhys’s next words were slow, deliberate.“I can’t offer advice or insight on your peoples’ bereavement rituals, nor did I know your parents.But wouldn’t they be proud of the way you’ve continued on in the face of continued adversity?”
“I hope they would be.”
“I don’t fully understand grief,” he continued.“But what I know of it, there isn’t a correct way to privately mourn, at least among humanoid cultures.”
“Except yours.You regrow your friends.”
“Our previous iterations must have grieved for one another before a new clone was generated.I did, when CW43 expired shortly after we were grown together.”
“Expired, Rhys?Really?”
He nodded, then shrugged.“Passed away, whichever phrase you prefer.”
Curiosity was a distraction from her grief.“Is there a CW44?”
“Yes, he did a great deal of work on the power station.”
“Huh.”Hannah squeezed his hand back, grateful for the contact.“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being a sounding board.Being myfriend,” she emphasized.“I’m usually not able to talk about this.”She glanced back at the stone.“I think my parents would be happy with what we’ve done so far.”She stood and brushed dirt off her shorts.“Why are you here, anyway?”
“I was looking for you.”
Her heart skipped a beat.“Why?”
He looked flummoxed, unable to offer an answer right away.“I just wanted to, is all.”
An odd warmth spread her through her chest as she considered his words.“I’m glad you did.”
ChapterEight
Rhys lay in bed,unable to sleep.His sensors told him that it was just past two in the morning and that all of his functions were optimal, which didn’t explain why he was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
He knew the reason, and it wasn’t because one of his components was offline.The woman slumbering across the landing, who had been unusually quiet since her visit to the cemetery, was entirely responsible for his sleeplessness.
