"I hoped you wouldn't come," Max says when she flickers at the edge of his vision. Angharad doesn't answer.

I saw her go under the wheels, a necessary lie; he hasn't seen her shattered. She's whole and unbroken, but her white linens are now blood crimson. She's not pregnant anymore. She's silent.

This bothers him. He might have found a fragile peace with his other ghosts, but Angharad's silence makes him feel empty, angry. Sad.

"I'm sorry I didn't turn the rig," he offers once, plaintively, and she ignores him with a shrug of an elegant shoulder. He should've known better, anyway.

Decades later, when he comes back to the Citadel again - a town, then a city, then a forest, a world of green growing high and wide - he sits under the great tree in the middle of it, its branches cupping the sky. Somebody's singing, far away, unafraid.

He says, "Worth it, eh? Was it?"

"Yes."

Her lips on his forehead are like a brand.