The cafeteria was empty. Not the kind of empty that happens when people are somewhere else—the kind that settles into a place when no one has any reason to be there anymore. The tables were clean. The chairs were pushed in. The windows looked out at grey sky and nothing else.
Eva sat across from Warden. The kid sat beside her mother, still shy, still half-hidden behind her shoulder. His eyes moved around the room like he expected something to jump out at him.
Warden signed something. The kid leaned forward to translate. "She says... don't be frustrated."
Eva blinked. "I'm not frustrated."
Warden's visible eye held hers. The kid waited. Then Warden signed again. "You have to enjoy life. As much as you can. With the people you love. Because you don't know what life will throw at you next."
Eva looked down at her hands. The black under her eyes felt heavier than it should have. "My life is so messed up. I'm not even real. I mean—I'm a clone. Of the original Eva Rostova. And she's an Absolute Architect. But she's..." Eva paused. "She's okay. I guess."
Warden started to sign something, then stopped. Her hands hovered in the air for a moment before dropping to the table. She signed again. One word. "Damn."
Eva almost smiled.
They sat in silence for a while. The kid pulled out a small notebook and started drawing—something abstract, shapes and lines that didn't mean anything yet. Warden watched Eva. Eva watched the window.
"When did you stop sleeping?" Warden signed. The kid translated without looking up from his drawing.
Eva's hand went to her face, touching the shadows under her eyes. "A while ago."
"Why?"
Eva thought about it. Really thought about it. "Because when I sleep, I dream about her. And when I wake up, she's not there."
Warden nodded slowly. She didn't say I'm sorry. She didn't say it gets better. She just nodded.
"Lily used to sing to me." Eva's voice was quiet. "When we were kids. Before everything. She made up this song about stars. She was terrible at it. Couldn't carry a tune to save her life." Warden's visible eye crinkled. "But I loved it. I loved her."
Warden reached across the table. Her hand—the right one, the one with the missing pinky—rested near Eva's. She didn't touch her. Just left it there.
The afternoon light shifted through the windows. Grey to gold to grey again.
"She left me a letter." Eva pulled the necklace out from under her shirt—the small photograph of Lily, younger, before the scar, before everything. "She said not to think of her as the Monster Queen. She said to think of the little girl who sang off-key and believed in stars."
Warden signed. The kid translated. "That's who she was. The rest was just survival."
Eva nodded. "Yeah."
"I keep thinking I should be over it by now." Eva's voice cracked. "It's been two years. Two years, and I still can't—" She stopped. Pressed her hand against her mouth. Warden waited. "I still can't say goodbye."
Warden signed. The kid set down his pencil. "You don't have to. She's not gone. She's in here. And here." He touched his chest, then his head.
Eva looked at him—at this boy who spoke for his mother, who translated pain into words, who had probably seen more than any child should. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen." Eva looked at Warden. "How long have you had him?"
Warden signed. The kid's ears went pink. "Since I was twelve. She found me in a lab. I was the only one left alive."
Eva's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
The kid shrugged. "It's okay. She's a good mom." Warden's visible eye softened. She reached over and ruffled his hair. He ducked, smiling.
The sun was setting. Eva didn't know how long they'd been sitting there. Hours, maybe. The light had turned orange, then red, then purple.
"I don't know how to live without her." Eva's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know who I am without her."
Warden signed. The kid translated slowly, carefully. "You're still Eva. The one who searched for her. The one who never gave up. The one who loved her. That doesn't change just because she's gone."
Eva closed her eyes. When she opened them, Warden was looking at her with something that might have been understanding. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just... understanding.
They sat in silence until the light died. The kid packed up his notebook. Warden stood. She signed something to Eva—one last thing—and the kid translated.
"Tomorrow. Same time. If you want."
Eva nodded.
Warden touched her own chest, then pointed at Eva. Then she left, the kid following close behind.
Eva sat alone in the dark cafeteria, the photograph of Lily pressed against her heart. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel quite so alone