The alarm went off at 5:17 a.m.
Michael lay still for a few seconds after it started, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling above his bed. He'd noticed it when he first moved in—thin, almost delicate, like someone had drawn it with a pencil and then changed their mind halfway through.
He never fixed it.
The alarm kept buzzing.
He rolled onto his side, reached out, and shut it off without opening his eyes. For a moment, he considered staying where he was. The bed was warm. The room was quiet. Nothing demanded him immediately.
Eventually, he sat up.
Michael was tall—he always had been. Six foot three, give or take, depending on the shoes. Even hunched slightly in the half-light of his small apartment, he filled the space more than it seemed designed for. His shoulders were broad, his build solid without being bulky. Strong from use, not from intention.
He ran a hand through his hair, black and thick, falling messily over his forehead. It refused to behave no matter how many times he cut it shorter. He'd stopped fighting that years ago.
The mirror by the bathroom sink caught his reflection as he passed. Green eyes, brighter than he ever remembered them being as a kid. His mother used to say they looked like summer leaves after rain.
The thought came uninvited.
He brushed his teeth and rinsed the sink carefully, wiping away stray toothpaste like it mattered. He dressed simply—dark jeans, a hoodie, worn sneakers—and moved through the apartment with practiced quiet.
The place wasn't much. One bedroom. A small kitchen. A couch he'd found secondhand and repaired himself. Books stacked unevenly on a shelf near the window. A sketchpad lay half-open on the table, a charcoal smudge on the edge of the page.
He paused there, just for a second, fingers brushing the paper.
Later, he thought.
Coffee came next. He liked it strong, black, nothing fancy. While it brewed, he stood at the window and watched the street below wake up. Cars passed. A dog barked. Someone argued on a phone.
Life moved whether you were ready or not.
Michael wrapped his hands around the mug and let the warmth sink in. His fingers were long, steady. He'd been told once they were good hands—capable hands. He'd never known what to do with that compliment.
Today was March 5th.
The date crossed his mind without ceremony. No spike of emotion. No countdown.
Just awareness.
He didn't know why it stuck with him year after year. It wasn't a birthday. It wasn't an anniversary. It wasn't connected to anything he could point to and say, this matters.
And yet.
He finished his coffee, washed the mug, and grabbed his jacket.
The walk to work took about twenty minutes.
Michael liked it that way. It gave his thoughts somewhere to go. The city wasn't loud yet—not really. Morning commuters moved with half-closed eyes and practiced indifference.
He passed a skate park on the way, empty at this hour. He slowed slightly, watching the smooth concrete curves, the rail catching the early light. He hadn't been there in months. Longer, maybe.
Soon, he told himself.
He always did.
At the crosswalk, he stopped automatically. A woman beside him scrolled through her phone, earbuds in. A man a few steps back adjusted his jacket and yawned.
The light stayed red.
For a brief moment—so brief he almost missed it—Michael felt a strange pressure behind his eyes. Like the air itself had shifted.
He frowned and looked up.
The sky was clear. Pale blue. Nothing unusual.
The feeling faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind only a faint echo, like a sound you couldn't quite place after it stopped.
The light turned green.
Michael crossed the street.
He worked at a hospital.
Maintenance.
It wasn't what he'd imagined himself doing when he was younger, but it paid the bills and kept him busy. There was something satisfying about fixing what others broke or ignored. Pipes. Doors. Lights. Small systems that mattered more than people realized.
No one noticed him unless something was wrong.
He preferred it that way.
His supervisor nodded at him as he signed in. A nurse waved him over to look at a flickering light near one of the patient rooms. He fixed it quickly, efficiently, without conversation.
As he worked, he listened to music through one earbud—nothing loud, nothing distracting. Something instrumental, steady. It helped him focus.
During a break mid-morning, he sat on an overturned crate in a storage area and flipped through a paperback he kept in his jacket pocket. The cover was creased, the spine worn.
He read slowly, thoughtfully. Not to escape—just to be somewhere else for a little while.
Around noon, he ate lunch alone in the break room. He didn't mind eating with others, but he didn't seek it out either. Conversation took energy. Silence didn't.
As he chewed, his phone buzzed.
A notification from a music app. A new release from a band he liked.
He smiled faintly and saved it for later.
A memory surfaced then, without warning.
Her voice.
The way she used to sit cross-legged on his bed, flipping through his books and pretending not to judge his taste. The way she'd painted with him once, laughing at how terrible they both were at it.
They hadn't fought.
They hadn't broken anything.
Life had just… pulled.
Distance. Time. Missed messages. Good intentions that didn't survive long gaps.
Michael had learned not to dwell on it.
He finished his lunch and tossed the wrapper away.
The rest of the shift passed without incident.
When his workday ended, he didn't go straight home. He stopped by a small music shop a few blocks out of his way, browsed for a while, and left with nothing. He liked the smell of the place. Old wood. Dust. Strings.
By the time he reached his apartment, the sun was already sinking low.
He dropped his jacket over a chair and kicked off his shoes. For a while, he lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, listening to the city hum outside.
Eventually, he sat up and pulled the sketchpad toward him.
The page was mostly blank.
He didn't know what he wanted to draw. He never did at first. He let the pencil move anyway, lines forming without much thought. Shapes. Shadows. Something that might have been a horizon.
He lost track of time.
When he finally looked up, the room was dark except for the faint glow from the streetlights outside.
Michael set the pad aside and stood, stretching.
He felt tired—but not the kind that came from exhaustion. The kind that came from carrying the same quiet weight every day without complaint.
He stepped onto the small balcony attached to his apartment and leaned against the railing. Below, the city flowed around itself.
He didn't think about the future much.
Didn't think about what might change.
He thought about what stayed.
"Happy birthday," he murmured softly, not entirely sure why.
The words hung in the air, unanswered.
Far beyond the sky, beyond the reach of stars, something ancient noticed him.
[Varaek]
Varaek felt the mortal before he understood why.
A steady presence. A life lived without excess. No hunger that reached too far. No cruelty disguised as survival.
The man endured.
Varaek watched without touching, without altering. He saw the loneliness—not sharp, not dramatic, but constant. The love that had nowhere to go. The quiet ways Michael chose to keep living anyway.
"He stays," Varaek said softly.
Not as praise.
As recognition.
For the first time since the fracture split the Halls, Varaek felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Hope.