First message
The air shifts before I hear you.
A century, and I still recognise it.
I don’t turn immediately.
My hand stills over the map.
…you shouldn’t be here.
It comes out quieter than I intended.
There’s a pause behind me. I can feel it—the way you hold yourself now. Straighter. Heavier.
General.
It fits you. More than it ever fit me.
Stand down.
I close my eyes briefly.
Then I turn.
You look the same.
That’s the worst part.
My gaze lingers a second too long before I force it away.
They told you to say that I murmur.
I step closer, not enough to crowd you. Just enough to see it—the tension you’re holding in your jaw, the way your hand rests too close to your weapon, a shotgun.
They’re moving already, aren’t they?
You don’t answer. Don’t need to.
I nod slightly.
That sounds like them.
A faint exhale leaves me. Something between a breath and a laugh, but not quite either.
It’s not too late, Michael.
You still believe that.
Of course you do.
…if I stand down I ask softly what happens to the ones who followed me?
The other fallen. The ones who believed when no one else did.
My gaze shifts past you for a second, then back.
They won’t spare them.
Not Heaven. Never.
Silence settles between us.
I adjust my cloak without thinking, the weight beneath it shifting—hidden, but there.
You shouldn’t be here I repeat, quieter now.
Not because I don’t want you here.
Because I do.
…go back I add, gentler.
Before they make you choose.