40 years after The Catastrophe, at The Farm beside Windhaven Lake.
A woman glared at the man who had once stood beside her. They had the same warm-toned, golden skin and dark brown eyes. Both wore faded clothing. Her, a sundress with blue morning glories, him a well-pressed suit with cufflinks. He looked like he used to be important.
They were on top of a roof, with an expanse of lake in the distance and a network of trees at their feet. It looked real, felt real. She knew better.
The lake flickered. "It'll just take a mo—" A plain porcelain cup flew past his head, shattering against what looked like thin air. On impact, the trees disappeared, replaced by a metal wall.
He exhaled slowly, staring where a drainage pipe had once been. "Come on, Blue." He grimaced. "Oh, please don't—." The saucer joined the cup.
He smoothed a hand over his greying hair, then settled his chin into his palm. She didn't move at all; but maybe that was because the door was bolted shut.
"You promised." Her voice broke. "You promised that you'd stop."
Even across the room, he had to look down at her. But it was him that felt small. The room was oddly shaped, with a slanted ceiling and long walls; it compressed around him.
"Tomorrow. We'll just do this one more time. We'll fix you, and we can stop." He stopped short of saying 'I promise,' but she heard it, all the same.
Light collected on her every wrinkle. The lines between her eyebrows were permanent. The dust motes floating between them seemed like they were, too. "Is that the same thing you told me yesterday?"
He couldn't breathe.
"How many times?" she asked.
Thousands. 14,600 times, once every day, rain or shine, weekday or weekend. Today was an anniversary, of sorts. It was the only kind they had left.
A tremor persisted in her left hand until she made a fist. She wanted something else to throw. Her eyes settled on her untouched food tray.
"…."
"Are those mangoes?" she asked suddenly. She addressed the air beside him. Her eyes softened in the way they did whenever she liked something. It used to be him. Her voice was clearer, with something like recognition. "I love mangoes. Finn used to smuggle them in for me when we were kids."
But then her gazed shifted again, far off. "Have I told you about Finn?"
His heart plummeted into his stomach. "Yeah, love. They're mangoes. Come sit down while you eat. You can tell me all about him."
Her bare feet produced little sound as she drew close. The nimbus of her white hair was wispy, her eyes overlarge and still so, so lovely. She was all he could see. "That's right. Come here. That's my girl." He pulled her into his arms and cradled the back of her head with his hand.
They stayed that way until the lake shimmered into existence behind them, and the trees swallowed up the wall. Something pricked her skin.
The last thing she could see was the mangoes, just past the length of his arm.