A few days later, Delia stood at the edge of Sergeant Schaeymoure's grave. In her arms, the infant, her cloned brother Galbraith, with whom she had been through so much pain and struggle, slept peacefully. The ground beneath her feet was damp and soft from the recent rain, as if everything around her was crying with her. A leaden, gray sky hung over the cemetery, enveloping everything around her in a heavy, suffocating air. It felt damp, cold, and silent, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees.
The funeral was quiet and without ceremony. The Moonbase, which could have sent representatives or paid tribute to Schaeymoure, ignored the event. Only a few former colleagues and a few locals from Lisbon came to see him off on his final journey. No one made loud speeches, no one remembered his exploits. Everything passed as somberly and quietly as Schaeymoure himself had passed away. He was just another victim of a system that ground people like the cogs of a machine.
Delia stood by the fresh grave and looked down. Galbraith, her brother, whom she had saved, was now the center of her universe. His tiny fingers barely touched her neck, and every breath he took echoed in her heart. He did not yet understand that the world around him was full of cruelty and violence, but Delia would do everything in her power to protect him from this fate. She thought about the future, about what awaited them now, but instead of clarity, she was enveloped only in fear and uncertainty.
What did she feel for Schaeymoure? A difficult question. He was her persecutor and tormentor, but also the one who helped her in her most important moment. He was part of that cruel system that she hated, but in his eyes she saw something more - a man who, perhaps, understood her better than anyone else.
"You were a prisoner of the system, like all of us," Delia whispered softly, feeling the weight on her heart become unbearable. "I can't forgive you for everything you did, but I can't forget that in the end you tried to help."
Her voice faded into the wind. Every step she had taken in the last few months had been a step into the unknown. Now, standing at the grave, she realized that with his death, one of the last links to her past had been severed. She could no longer return to the time when everything had seemed simple and clear. A new, frightening reality was opening up before her.
She looked at the sleeping Galbraith. He was her only support in this world, the only reason she continued to fight. His life depended on her decisions, and she knew that there were still many dangers ahead. But she was ready to move forward, for him.
"I'm sorry, Schaeymoure," she whispered, but even she wasn't sure if she could ever truly forgive him, for he was part of the world that was trying to destroy her, but he was also a man who was perhaps trying to save himself by saving her.
As the first rays of sun broke through the thick clouds, Delia slowly began to walk away. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, as if trying to take her pain away. She held Galbraith tighter to her and took a step, then another. Her steps were slow but sure, as if she were searching for a way through this gray world.
From the air, she could see how the streets of Lisbon she walked formed a strange symbol. It was an inverted cross, barely visible from the ground, but clearly visible from above. A symbol that seemed to foretell her future. The roads she walked were not random. They were the beginning of something greater - a new struggle, new sacrifices, and perhaps a new beginning.
Delia walked these roads, not knowing what lay ahead, but knowing one thing - her fight was far from over.