Chapter 7: Professional Distance

The airship docking tower hummed with a low-grade bureaucratic energy, the kind that always gathered around official departures. Dawn light cut through the high glass panels, illuminating motes of dust stirred up by polished boots and the shuffle of document cases. Pieck stood with Jean and Reiner near the gangway, Connie a few paces behind already chatting with a ground technician about cargo manifests. They formed a familiar cluster of dark formal coats against the industrial grey of the hangar.

A Marleyan protocol officer approached, clipboard in hand, to confirm final passenger count and destination codes. Pieck offered him her practiced, gentle smile while reciting her diplomatic identification number from memory. The sound of her own voice felt oddly detached already, calibrated for public consumption. She could feel the weight of her briefcase in her left hand, balanced perfectly as always, while her right hand remained empty at her side. Stefan had already said his goodbye at the apartment door an hour earlier—a fierce, silent hug in the dim hallway that lasted precisely seventeen seconds before she’d pulled away to adjust her collar. No lingering touch here, not with a dozen military and civilian personnel within sight.

“Safe flight, Ambassador,” the officer said, marking his sheet.

“Thank you. We’ll send word once we’ve touched down in Odiha.” Her tone was warm yet efficiently terminal, closing the conversation.

She turned to follow Jean up the steep gangway, the metal grid clattering under their shoes. At the top, she paused for the obligatory glance back, a standard courtesy wave to the ground crew. Her eyes scanned the concrete floor below, past the uniformed figures, to the shadowed entrance of the terminal building. He wasn’t there obviously—that would have been a staggering breach of their unspoken rules—but some part of her had looked anyway. A foolish impulse, honestly. She ducked through the airship’s hatch.

Inside, the cabin smelled of polished leather, fuel oil, and faintly of the lemon-scented disinfectant they used on the upholstery. It was a smell she associated with transition, with neither here nor there. Jean and Reiner were stowing their bags in the overhead racks, discussing seating arrangements with the sort of mundane focus people use to avoid thinking about the hours of confined travel ahead.

“Window or aisle, Pieck?” Reiner asked, already looking a bit cramped in the low-ceilinged space.

“Aisle is fine.” She needed easy access to her notes later anyway. She slid into the plush seat, placing her briefcase on the floor between her feet where she could feel its solid presence against her ankle. Through the small, thick window beside her, she watched ground crewmen disconnecting heavy fuel lines, their movements economical and practiced.

The engines spooled up with a deep vibrational groan that permeated the cabin’s frame. The airship gave a slight lurch, then began its slow, stately drift away from the mooring mast. Liberio’s harbor receded below them, becoming a neat toy model of docks and buildings, the water a flat sheet of early morning grey. She kept her gaze on it until the city blurred into the coastline and then vanished into the haze of distance.

Only then did she lean back and close her eyes, listening to Jean and Connie debate some minor point of Odihan customs law across the aisle. The ambassador was en route. The woman who had bitten her lover’s shoulder raw just thirty-six hours ago was now officially in storage for the duration of the flight.

Later, in her temporary quarters at the Odihan guest annex, she unpacked her case with mechanical efficiency. When she pulled out the oversized grey hoodie, she held it for a moment before folding it under her pillow. It was just fabric, honestly. A stupid comfort object.

Stefan locked the apartment door behind him. The bolt slid home with a solid thunk that seemed to seal in the quiet.

The silence didn’t just exist; it actively pressed against his ears. It had a texture today, thick and granular, unlike the comfortable quiet they shared when Pieck was home reading or working at her desk. That kind of quiet had been a living thing, punctuated by the rustle of a page, the scratch of her pen, or the soft sigh she made when she stretched her back. This was different. This was absence made audible.

He stood in the entryway for a full minute just listening to it. The refrigerator kicked on in the kitchen with a sudden hum that made him flinch. A pipe knocked somewhere in the building’s walls. Normal sounds, but they now felt like intrusions.

Walking into the living room felt like entering a museum diorama of his own life. Everything was exactly as they’d left it this morning—the sofa cushions slightly dented where she’d sat to pull on her boots, a single navy hairpin forgotten on the side table next to her half-finished tea from before dawn. He picked up the cold cup, its surface greasy now, and carried it to the kitchen.

The kitchen was worse somehow. The breakfast dishes were already washed and put away—he’d done them immediately after she left, needing to move—so the counters were bleakly pristine. The sunlight through the window over the sink fell across empty steel draining boards. He put her teacup down with a faint click that echoed.

His body knew what came next in the rhythm of a normal day. Market for fresh produce, then inventorying the pantry, then perhaps cleaning the bathroom or sorting the week’s laundry. A series of purposeful orbits around Pieck’s needs and preferences, which gave shape to his hours. But with Pieck gone, the gravity well at the center of those orbits had vanished. The tasks remained, but their meaning had drained out.

He took the woven market basket from its hook by the door anyway. Habit was a powerful engine.

Odiha’s conference chamber was aggressively modern, all pale wood and angular windows overlooking a different harbor, one cluttered with cranes and industrial barges. The air smelled of strong coffee and floor wax. Pieck sat at the long table between Reiner and a junior aide from Marley’s trade ministry, her posture perfectly aligned with her chair back.

Across the table, Odihan officials laid out their positions on port usage tariffs and reconstruction material quotas. Their voices were polite but firm, each point delivered with the careful cadence of something rehearsed. Pieck kept her expression attentively neutral, head tilted just so to convey engaged listening. Her right hand moved steadily across her notepad in crisp shorthand—not transcription, but distillation. She captured core arguments, noted potential concessions hidden in verbose phrasing, and underlined points where Jean or Reiner might need to interject later.

When it was Marley’s turn to respond, Reiner spoke first, his voice calm and measured. Pieck watched the Odihan delegation’s faces as he talked, tracking micro-expressions around their eyes and mouths. The man on the far right tapped his finger twice on his water glass when Reiner mentioned timber imports; a point of irritation or maybe just a nervous habit worth filing away.

She added a small asterisk next to that line in her notes.

Her own mind felt like a clean, well-lit room with all unnecessary furniture removed. Every thought had a designated place: analysis here, strategy there, recollection of precedent in that corner over there. The part of her that remembered waking up tangled in Stefan’s sheets this morning—the part that could still recall exactly how his stubble had felt against her palm—was securely locked in a soundproofed closet at the back of that room. She could sense its presence as a faint hum if she listened for it, which she didn’t.

“Ambassador Finger?” The lead Odihan delegate was looking at her expectantly; Reiner had just finished his statement.

“To build on Colonel Braun’s point,” she began without missing a beat already pulling relevant trade volume figures from memory to illustrate his argument with more granular data while suggesting a potential compromise framework involving phased implementation.

Her voice in the chamber sounded exactly right to her own ears: warm enough to be approachable yet precise enough to command respect. The Cart Titan was nowhere in evidence; this was purely the diplomat at work.

She took another concise note as she finished speaking then glanced out the tall window briefly while an Odihan under-secretary consulted his papers.

The water in Odiha’s harbor was a dull green under the midday sun rather than Liberio’s steely blue-grey.

The market in Liberio was its usual mid-morning self: bustling but not frantic housewives comparing fish prices vendors calling out specials on late-summer stone fruit.

Stefan moved through it on autopilot.

He stopped at their usual fishmonger’s stall where old man Gerhardt always saved the best snapper for Pieck if he knew she was in town.

“Just for you today Stefan?” Gerhardt asked wiping his hands on his apron already reaching for a smaller less premium fish without being told.

“Just me.” Stefan nodded accepting the wrapped parcel knowing it would still be too much for one person.

At the greengrocer he picked out tomatoes onions potatoes all according to what he usually bought for meals Pieck enjoyed roasting vegetables for stews she liked simple flavors after rich diplomatic dinners but then he stood holding an eggplant and realized she wouldn’t be here for any of it

He bought it anyway because his list said to

The walk back to the apartment building felt longer than usual every step seemed to emphasize how his hands were full of groceries destined for no shared meal

Back inside he put everything away with meticulous care aligning jars in the pantry folding paper sacks for reuse

He looked at the cleaning schedule he kept pinned inside a kitchen cabinet organized by day and task Monday floors Tuesday bathrooms Wednesday dusting

It was Tuesday

He fetched the bucket and rags filled it with hot soapy water carried it to their bathroom

The space still held traces of her departure: a damp spot on the shower wall where she’d rinsed her hair one of her hair ties looped around the faucet handle

He cleaned methodically wiping down mirrors scrubbing tiles until they shone erasing any sign that anyone else lived here

When he finished he emptied the bucket dried his hands surveyed the gleaming sterile result

The apartment was perfectly orderly now completely silent

He stood in the middle of their living room with nothing left on his list until dinner time which suddenly seemed like an impossible distance away just another empty ritual to perform alone

The silence wasn’t loud anymore it had settled into something deeper than sound

It was simply there waiting for him to find some way to fill it knowing already that none of his usual methods would work because all of them were designed around a purpose that had just boarded an airship and flown eight hundred kilometers away

The formal dinner that evening was held in a Odihan government hall with vaulted ceilings and chandeliers that cast a brittle, glittering light over the assembled diplomats and officials. Long tables draped in white linen groaned under platters of local seafood and braised meats. Pieck wore a dark blue dress she kept for such occasions, its cut simple enough to be professional yet elegant enough to signal respect for the hosts.

She was seated between the Odihan Minister for Reconstruction and a senior trade envoy from a southern nation. The conversation flowed as predictably as the wine. She discussed harbor dredging techniques with the minister, nodding at appropriate intervals while making a mental note about his preference for Marleyan engineering firms. With the envoy, she navigated a delicate conversation about grain subsidies, offering a carefully balanced perspective that hinted at mutual benefit without making any commitments.

Her smile never wavered. Her laugh was timed perfectly—a soft, genuine-sounding chuckle at a mild anecdote about shipping logistics. She took precise bites of her food, her movements economical and neat. The dress was fine, but she missed the old grey hoodie Stefan had left at her apartment months ago. It was absurdly large on her, and smelled faintly of baking flour and his cheap sandalwood soap. She’d packed it in her luggage without really thinking about why.

But her eyes kept straying past the minister’s shoulder, drawn to the wall of windows that framed Odiha’s night-time harbor. It was a view meant to impress: strings of electric lights outlining the piers, the silhouettes of cranes standing like skeletal sentinels against a purple dusk sky, the occasional running light of a patrol boat cutting a green seam through the dark water.

It was impressive, technically. A testament to post-Rumbling industry.

It just wasn’t hers.

Her mind kept superimposing another view onto it. The Liberio harbor from their apartment window was messier, more lived-in. The lights were yellower, warmer, from gas lamps still supplementing the newer electric ones. The ships were smaller—fishing trawlers and coastal freighters, not massive reconstruction barges. Their window framed a specific slice of it between two older brick warehouses, and if you leaned just right on the sofa, you could see the blinking red light on the end of the northern breakwater.

Stefan knew that. He knew which slice of the view she preferred. Sometimes when she was working late at her desk, he’d bring her tea and stand behind her for a moment, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder while they both looked out at that same arrangement of darkness and pinprick lights. They never commented on it. They just shared it.

“The scale of your port operations is certainly ambitious,” she said to the minister, pulling her gaze back to his face and taking a sip of water to anchor herself in the present moment. “Marley has much to learn from your logistical planning.”

Her attention was back, fully engaged. But a part of her consciousness had split off, a quiet background process now permanently dedicated to measuring every new scene against the memory of her own harbor, her own window, her own quiet companion in the dark. It was an inefficient use of mental resources, frankly.

Back at the guest annex after the dinner, she found Jean and Reiner lingering in the common lounge over cups of bitter military-issue tea.

“I miss my apartment,” she said quietly, sinking into an armchair beside them.

Reiner glanced over from where he was studying a map. “The view?”

“The view,” Pieck agreed. “The quiet. Him.”

Jean gave a soft snort into his cup. “You just miss his cooking.”

“I do,” she admitted without hesitation.

Reiner folded his map with careful precision. “You’ll be back soon enough.”

“I know.” She didn’t elaborate on how ‘soon enough’ felt like geological time measured in negotiation sessions instead of years.

The next morning before their session, Reiner found her in the hallway outside their temporary offices, holding a folder.

“You look tired,” he observed mildly.

“I didn’t sleep well.”

He nodded as if this were expected intelligence. “Guest bed?”

“Partially.” She hesitated before adding more than she usually would. “Mostly I’m just… out of rhythm.”

“Hm.” Reiner’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes held an understanding too deep for teasing. They’d all been out of rhythm for most of their lives.

It was Jean who brought it up later that afternoon during a break, when Pieck had retreated to her room for ten minutes between meetings.

He knocked once before leaning in her doorway. “Reiner says you’re pining.”

Pieck looked up from where she sat on the edge of her bed, still in her formal jacket. “I am not pining.”

“You stole one of his shirts, didn’t you?”

“It’s a hoodie,” she corrected automatically.

Jean’s mouth twitched. “And you’re… smelling it? Like some lovesick cadet?”

Heat crept up her neck despite herself. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that.” He shook his head with mock exasperation. “Ambassador Finger, master strategist, defeated by laundry.”

The absurdity of it hit her then—the sheer ridiculousness of sitting in a foreign country missing the scent of another person’s soap—and she let out a short, real laugh that surprised them both.

“It helps,” she admitted finally.

“I believe you,” Jean said quietly, all teasing gone from his voice. “For what it’s worth.” Then he stepped back into the corridor to give her privacy with her ridiculous stolen hoodie.

She couldn’t seem to stop that background process either.

The messenger arrived at Stefan’s door just past ten the next morning—a young Marleyan military courier in a crisp uniform who handed him a sealed envelope with a polite nod before turning on his heel and striding back down the hall.

Stefan closed the door and examined the envelope. It was plain, good-quality paper. The handwriting on the front was neat and unmistakable: Stefan. No title, no address. Just his name.

He broke the seal with his thumb.

The note inside was brief, written in the same hand.

Stefan—

Annie and I are concluding our business in Liberio today. We would be pleased if you could join us for lunch tomorrow at 1 p.m. at the Glasshouse Café on the upper promenade. We’ve heard their lemon cake is worth the trip.

We hope you’re free.

—Armin

It wasn’t signed with any official title either. The tone was deliberately personal, situated somewhere between an invitation and a gentle summons from people who understood the layers of his life. The café choice was telling too—the upper promenade was away from the dense cluster of diplomatic offices and government buildings, a civilian space favored by locals with a view of the sea rather than the harbor’s industry.

They were creating a neutral, safe zone. A lunch between friends, or as close to that as their complicated lives allowed.

He read it twice then placed it on the kitchen counter where Pieck would have seen it if she were here. The apartment offered no opinion on whether he should go. The silence just persisted.

He went to the small desk in the living room nook, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote an equally brief reply in his own clear hand.

Armin—

Thank you for the invitation. I will be there at 1 p.m. tomorrow.

—Stefan

He sealed it in a fresh envelope, wrote Armin Arlert on the front, and left it by the door to drop at the liaison office later. The act of writing, of making a decision that punctured the empty rhythm of his day, brought a faint sense of relief. It was a point on the map of an otherwise featureless afternoon.

Pieck’s temporary office in the Odihan administrative complex was a small, functional room with a single window overlooking an interior courtyard. It contained a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a secure-line telephone—a heavy black device with a reinforced cord and a brass plaque bearing Marley’s eagle crest.

The morning’s second negotiation session had ended with a tense adjournment over liability clauses. The Odihan side was digging in; Reiner’s patience was visibly thinning. They had ninety minutes until reconvening.

Jean had gone to consult with their military attaché. Reiner was pacing the corridor outside trying to cool down. Pieck had retreated here under the pretext of reviewing her notes.

She sat at the desk now, her notepad open but unseeing. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead was a thin, annoying whine. Her shoulders ached from holding the same attentive posture for hours.

Her gaze landed on the secure-line phone.

Protocol allowed for periodic check-ins with her home office in Liberio for logistical updates. A brief call would be perfectly justifiable. She could ask about any incoming message traffic, confirm receipt of her earlier dispatches. Standard procedure.

Her hand moved across the polished wood of the desk toward the receiver.

Her fingers stopped just short of touching the cool black bakelite.

A personal call on this line wasn’t just against regulations; it was an active risk. Every call was logged at both ends by communications clerks. The content wasn’t monitored in real-time for dignitaries of her level, but the metadata was pristine: time, duration, endpoints. A call from her temporary office in Odiha directly to her private apartment line in Liberio would stick out on a log sheet like a single wrong note in a symphony. A junior clerk might not think anything of it. A security officer looking for patterns might.

And what would she say? The line had no real privacy even if the content wasn’t actively listened to. She couldn’t ask about his day or tell him about the view or hear about whatever small domestic drama had unfolded in her absence. She couldn’t say any of the things she actually wanted to say.

All she could offer would be sterile, coded professional language. The weather here is clear. Documents received. Meaningless noise that would only highlight the distance it was trying to bridge.

Her hand hovered there for another five seconds feeling suddenly foolish exposed by her own need

She pulled it back folding her hands together in her lap

She took a deliberate breath in then out focusing on the physical sensation of air filling her lungs and leaving them

It was better this way cleaner The strategic choice was always to minimize points of contact reduce the surface area for error

She opened her notepad again forcing her eyes to focus on the shorthand from the morning session looking for angles they hadn’t yet exploited

The phone sat silent on its cradle a black monument to professional discipline

The Glasshouse Café deserved its name. It was built into a conservatory attached to an old maritime museum on Liberio’s upper promenade one wall and most of the ceiling were made of slightly warped glass panes held in place by wrought-iron framing The sunlight that filtered through was diffused and gentle warming the air filled with the scent of blooming jasmine from potted plants and fresh coffee

Stefan arrived five minutes early Armin and Annie were already seated at a corner table away from the main flow of patrons

Armin stood as he approached offering a handshake “Stefan Good to see you” His grip was firm his expression open and thoughtful as ever

Annie gave a small nod from her seat “Hello” Her blonde hair was tied back simply she wore civilian clothes—a soft grey sweater trousers She looked more relaxed than Stefan had ever seen her in any official context

“Thank you for inviting me” Stefan said taking the empty chair that placed his back to most of the room allowing him to face them and also keep a peripheral watch on the café entrance an old habit he couldn’t quite shake

A waiter came they ordered coffee and sandwiches The routine of it helped settle the strange formality

For a few minutes they made obligatory small talk about Liberio’s weather which was unseasonably mild and the café itself which Armin admitted he’d found in a guidebook

Then Armin set his water glass down aligning it precisely with the edge of his saucer “How is everything at the apartment?” he asked His tone was casually conversational but his blue eyes were direct “The building management hasn’t been causing any trouble with repairs or anything?”

It was a perfectly normal question from someone who knew Pieck lived there Yet Stefan heard what lay beneath it: Is your cover intact? Is there any unusual scrutiny?

“No trouble” Stefan answered keeping his voice equally even “Everything’s quiet The new roof they put on last spring is holding up well no leaks” He offered a specific mundane detail to sell the normality

Annie who had been watching a sparrow hop along one of the interior window ledges glanced over “Quiet is good” she said simply

Their food arrived momentarily halting the conversation They ate in a companionable silence that felt surprisingly comfortable not strained Stefan realized these two probably valued silence as much as he did They weren’t here to fill the air with chatter they were here to be present

It felt less like an interrogation and more like… reconnaissance by friendly forces A status check from allies who understood the terrain

Armin took a careful bite of his sandwich, chewed, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “The view from Pieck’s living room is quite remarkable,” he said, his tone conversational. “I remember noticing it that one time we visited. That particular angle of the harbor, with the two brick warehouses framing it. It must change quite a bit with the weather.”

Stefan nodded, recognizing the precision of the observation. Armin wasn’t making idle chat; he was confirming a detail, verifying the stability of the environment. “It does. During a storm, you can’t see the breakwater light at all. Just sheets of grey. On clear nights, you can count the running lights on the anchored freighters.” He paused, then added a piece of real, unscripted truth. “She prefers it in the hour just after sunset. When the water goes dark but the sky’s still holding some light.”

Armin’s expression softened minutely. “That’s a good time of day.” He took a sip of water. “And the building itself? No issues with the heating? I know those older structures near the water can be drafty.”

“The heating’s fine. We had the boiler serviced last autumn. The windows are the original ones, so they sing a bit in a high wind, but they’re solid.” Stefan met his gaze, understanding the subtext perfectly. Is her sanctuary physically secure? Is the foundation sound? “Nothing needs attention right now.”

“Good,” Armin said, and the word carried more weight than its single syllable should have been able to hold.

Annie, who had been listening while methodically dissecting her own sandwich, looked up. “I tried to make a peach tart last week,” she announced, her voice flat. “From a Marleyan cookbook Armin bought. The filling was acceptable. The crust was… not.”

Armin gave a small, fond sigh. “It had structural integrity. Like a building material.”

“It was hard,” Annie corrected, though a flicker of something almost like amusement touched her eyes. She turned her pale gaze fully on Stefan. “The recipe said ‘cut cold butter into the flour until it resembles coarse crumbs.’ My crumbs were either dust or lumps. What does that mean, ‘coarse crumbs’? Practically.”

The question was so unexpected, so utterly mundane and divorced from diplomacy or secrets, that Stefan felt a genuine smile tug at his mouth for the first time in days. It was also, he realized, a deliberate gesture. She was asking him in his area of undisputed expertise, acknowledging his domain on its own terms.

“It means pebbles,” he said, setting his fork down. “Like tiny pebbles from a garden path, not sand. Your butter should be very cold, and you should use your fingertips, not your palms—the heat from your hands is the enemy. You press and lift, press and lift, quickly. You’re not blending it; you’re coating the flour with fat while leaving little distinct pieces of butter intact. Those pieces steam in the oven. That’s what makes the layers flaky.”

Annie listened with a focus usually reserved for threat assessments. She gave a single, slow nod. “Cold butter. Fingertips. Pebbles, not sand.” She committed it to memory. “I will attempt this.”

“It gets easier with practice,” Stefan offered.

“Most things do,” Annie replied, picking up her coffee cup.

The conversation drifted then, naturally, inevitably, toward the empty chairs at another table far away. Armin wiped his fingers neatly on his napkin again. “I had a dispatch from Odiha this morning,” he began, his voice lowering slightly even though the café’s ambient chatter provided decent cover. “Purely logistical, about transport schedules. But Connie managed to add a postscript.” A faint smile played on his lips. “Apparently he tried to use an Odihan public telephone to call his mother in Ragako and got the wires so tangled with the operator that they sent a technician. He spent twenty minutes apologizing in broken Odihan while two very confused repairmen tried to figure out what he’d done to their switchboard.”

Stefan chuckled softly, a real sound that felt unfamiliar in his own throat. That was pure Connie—a force of cheerful chaos even in the heart of a delicate diplomatic mission.

“Jean’s notes in the same dispatch were predictably meticulous,” Armin continued, his tone warm with understated affection. “Four pages of observations on Odihan naval uniforms, port security procedures, and the quality of their briefing room coffee, ranked on a scale from ‘acceptable’ to ‘swill.’ He’s settling into the role a bit too well, honestly. I think he’s starting to enjoy being the most formally dressed person in any room.”

“He always did like rules,” Annie said, finishing the last bite of her sandwich. “Now he gets to make them.” She said it without judgment, as a simple statement of fact about someone they all knew.

Hearing these snippets—these small, human fragments of Pieck’s world right now—acted like a key turning in a lock for Stefan. It didn’t bring her back, but it connected him to the reality of her days. She was over there with Connie’s clumsy energy and Jean’s structured intensity and Reiner’s steadying bulk. She was in a world that contained postscripts about tangled phone wires and critiques of coffee. It made the distance feel less abstractly vast and more like a specific route on a map that others were also traveling.

They finished their meal talking of nothing much—the upcoming harvest festivals in Paradis, a new bookshop that had opened near the old military academy. The talk was easy, devoid of pressure. It wasn’t an interrogation or a debriefing; it was companionship offered across the unique gulf of their shared circumstances.

When the bill came, Armin picked it up with a quiet “Please, it was our invitation.” There were no arguments.

Outside on the sun-dappled promenade, they parted ways with minimal ceremony.

“Thank you for coming, Stefan,” Armin said, offering his hand again.

“Thank you for the lunch.”

Annie gave another nod, her hands tucked into her pockets. “Good luck with the quiet,” she said bluntly.

Then they turned and walked away together toward the tram line, two figures receding into the afternoon light.

Stefan stood for a moment watching them go before turning toward home.

The walk back felt different than yesterday’s trudging march from the market. The sunlight seemed genuinely warm rather than just bright. The sounds of the city—the clatter of a tram, a vendor calling out, the distant cry of gulls—felt part of a living tapestry he was walking through instead of noises happening around a void.

He let himself into the apartment.

The silence greeted him again, of course it did—that deep, resonant quiet of an empty home.

But it didn’t feel abnormally loud anymore. It didn’t press.

He put his keys in the dish by the door where they belonged. He walked to the kitchen and saw Armin’s note still on the counter next to Annie’s single hair tie from weeks ago that Pieck kept meaning to move.

Instead of cleaning or organizing or inventing another task to kill time until an imaginary dinner for one he filled the kettle and put it on to boil for tea

While he waited he stood at their living room window and looked out at their slice of the Liberio harbor The water was calm today reflecting the pale blue of the sky

Quiet is good Annie had said

It still was quiet The solitude was still present wrapping around him

But now it felt like a different kind of solitude not the hollow echoing kind left by an extraction but the deliberate watchful kind maintained during an operation where your allies were accounted for and holding their positions

He was holding his The apartment was secure Pieck’s home environment was stable Her friends had just verified it personally

The kettle began its low whistle building to a scream He went to lift it from the burner pouring hot water over tea leaves in the pot Pieck preferred

He would have one cup then maybe he would look at that baking technique for Annie again see if he could think of a clearer way to explain the fingertip method

The silence in the apartment settled around him not as an enemy to be filled but as a space to be kept ready maintained

He had his orders