Page 109 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“I know. I know it's not rational. I know I can't work every minute of every day. But the guilt doesn't listen to reason.” He looked at me. “How do you manage it? The weight of it all?”

“Badly,” I admitted. “I drink too much when I can get it. Don't sleep enough. Think about all the men I've killed and wonder if any of them had people who loved them.”

“That's not managing. That's suffering.”

“Same thing, some days.”

He nodded slowly, like I'd confirmed something he already suspected. “We're both rather broken, aren't we?”

“Completely shattered.”

“And yet.” His hand found mine again on the bench between us. “Here we are. Eating stolen biscuits and walking on ice and talking about fish. Despite everything.”

“Despite everything,” I agreed.

We sat there holding hands while the morning brightened around us. The ducks had relocated to a patch of unfrozen water near the bank, paddling in satisfied circles. A robin landed on a nearby branch, red breast vivid against the snow, and watched us with the fearless curiosity of a bird that knew it was too small to be worth hunting.

“Tell me something,” Art said. “Something that has nothing to do with the war.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. A memory. A favourite food. What you wanted to be when you were young.”

I thought about it. Tried to find something in my past that wasn't shadowed by poverty or violence or the long slow slide toward becoming a weapon.

“Fireman,” I said finally.

“Sorry?”

“When I was six, I wanted to be a fireman. There was a station near our house, and I used to watch them polish the engine. All that brass, gleaming. Thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.”

Art's expression softened. “What happened?”

“Grew up. Realised you don't get to choose what you become, not really. The world makes those choices for you.” I shrugged. “Turned out I was good at shooting things instead of saving them. Not quite the same.”

“You save people too. You saved me.”

“That's different.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head, considering. “You could still do it. After. Become a fireman, I mean. It's not too late.”

“I'm thirty-three years old and I've spent the last four years killing people. Fire brigades aren't exactly clamouring for my application.”

“You don't know that. The war's going to end eventually. There'll be rebuilding. They'll need people who know how to handle emergencies, how to stay calm under pressure.” His grip on my hand tightened. “You could have a different life. We both could.”

The hope in his voice was almost painful to hear. This man who dealt in certainties, in mathematical proofs and logical progressions, choosing to believe in something as fragile as a future.

“What about you?” I asked. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“A lighthouse keeper.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Really. I read a book about them when I was eight. The idea of living alone on a rock, surrounded by sea, nothing but the light and the mathematics of navigation... it seemed perfect. Nopeople demanding things. No social situations to navigate. Just me and the mechanism and the endless pattern of the waves.”

“That's the most you thing I've ever heard.”

“I know.” He smiled ruefully. “Turns out lighthouse keeping requires a certain amount of physical hardiness I don't possess. Also, the positions are quite competitive. Who knew?”