last reads

A knock. “Come in,” she says. The door opens, and Simon stands there in the hallway. He wears his usual Cleric uniform—a black button-up shirt, closed tight at the throat, and dark cargo pants above hiking boots. His handsome features are wrinkled by lines on his forehead as well as on either side of his thin mouth. His dark hair, always combed so carefully to the side, seems to have grayed more at the temples overnight. He looks at her with eyes very blue against the slate concrete, though there’s a softness to them that always reassures her no matter what’s happening at the moment. “Good morning, Zoey.” “Good morning, Simon.” “You rested well?” She nods. “Good. Are you ready for breakfast?” “Sure.” He holds the door open for her, letting it coast shut when she steps into the hall, the lock hidden in the frame snapping quietly. They walk slowly down the hallway, their steps nearly matched. How many times have we done this? She could do the math, she supposes, but what purpose would it...