We chose the mountains.
Andrew said islands felt dishonest—too close to the lighthouse, too much water pretending to be distance. Mountains, he argued, were older than intention. They didn't watch. They didn't remember. They simply existed and dared you to do the same.
I agreed too quickly.
That should have warned me.
The road climbed steadily, asphalt thinning into stone, signal dissolving into static. The car's engine hummed with a patience I envied. Bulletproof, Griffin had said. As if the danger would announce itself with gunfire.
Lucia sat in the back, the teddy on her lap, tracing slow circles into its worn fabric. She hadn't asked where we were going. She hadn't needed to.
Heaven lay stretched across the backseat floor, eyes half-closed, alert in a way only creatures without lies can be. When the elevation shifted too fast, his ears twitched.
Andrew drove.
He always drove when he wanted control without admitting it.
"You know," he said after a long stretch of silence, "normal people take pictures on trips like this."
"Normal people don't notice latency," I replied.
He smiled faintly. "Normal people also don't answer like that."
The road curved.
For a moment—just a moment—the world felt lighter. Thinner. As if the rules were tired too.
The cabin was old. Not abandoned—maintained by someone who didn't visit often enough to care about comfort. Wood that remembered colder winters. Windows that looked outward, never inward.
No mirrors.
That should have reassured me.
It didn't.
Andrew unpacked with deliberate inefficiency, humming under his breath. Lucia explored quietly, her steps careful, as if she didn't want to wake something sleeping beneath the floorboards.
I stood outside, breathing air that didn't feel borrowed.
For the first time in weeks, the watch was quiet.
Not dormant.
Respectful.
That night, the sky fractured into stars too sharp to be comforting. No clouds. No movement. The kind of stillness that feels earned.
We sat by the fire.
Andrew talked about nothing—bad food, worse bosses, hypothetical futures that assumed time would behave. Lucia listened, laughing softly at the right moments, the teddy tucked under her arm like an afterthought.
I watched the flames.
Fire didn't hesitate.
I wondered what it cost.
"Hey," Andrew said suddenly, nudging me with his elbow. "You're here. Try being here."
"I am," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Then why do you look like you're waiting for permission?"
I didn't answer.
The fire popped.
Somewhere deep in the forest, something shifted its weight.
Sleep came unevenly.
The fire had settled into something honest—no roar, just heat.
Andrew stared into it longer than necessary.
"Do you think morality exists," he asked suddenly, "or do we just invent it so we don't panic?"
I didn't look away from the flames. "Morality exists the way gravity does. It doesn't care if you believe in it—but it only works when conditions allow."
Andrew snorted. "That's not morality. That's consequence."
"Same thing," I said.
Lucia glanced up from her cup. "That's not fair," she said softly. "Morality is about choosing to be good even when there's no consequence."
Andrew turned toward her, surprised. "Is it still good if no one remembers it?"
She hesitated. That mattered.
"I think," she said slowly, "it still changes you."
Andrew nodded once. "That's the best argument I've heard all week."
I added, "What if changing you is the consequence?"
Andrew smiled faintly. "Then morality is just long-term self-interest."
Lucia frowned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not," I said. "It just means no one's innocent. Only consistent."
The fire cracked.
Andrew leaned back, arms crossed. "Then what about evil? Is it just someone being consistent with the wrong values?"
"No," I said. "Evil is consistency without reflection."
Lucia hugged the teddy closer. "So what about people who don't feel bad at all?"
Andrew looked at me.
I answered anyway. "Then they don't lack morality. They lack friction."
Lucia swallowed. "And what happens when they gain it?"
I thought of latency. Of delay. Of borrowed time.
"They break," I said. "Or they change the world so they don't have to."
Andrew poked the fire with a stick. "That sounds like gods."
"No," I corrected. "That sounds like people who think they're done becoming."
Lucia stared into the flames. "That's scary."
Andrew smiled—not amused. "No. What's scary is how reasonable it sounds."
For a moment, none of us spoke.
The fire burned evenly.
Somewhere far away, something listened—not to the words, but to the alignment behind them.
Lucia broke the silence first.
"…Can we talk about something normal now?"
Andrew laughed, genuine this time. "Deal."
I didn't.
But for a few minutes, I pretended.
I dreamed of doors that opened inward no matter which way I pushed. Of clocks that ticked only when I wasn't looking. Of a vote being taken in a language that didn't include mercy.
I woke before dawn.
The cabin was silent—but not empty.
Schyper didn't appear.
Instead, the teddy sat upright on the table.
Lucia was asleep.
Andrew was asleep.
Heaven's head lifted slowly, eyes tracking something I couldn't see.
The air felt… aligned.
"You shouldn't have come here," a voice said—not aloud, not in my head. Between.
"This place doesn't care," I replied.
"That's why," the voice said.
The watch vibrated.
Once.
Not acknowledgment.
Warning.
By morning, the feeling had passed.
Andrew stretched, complaining about his back. Lucia made coffee that tasted like it had forgiven me. Heaven chased shadows that didn't quite touch the ground.
For a few hours, we were just people.
And that was the problem.
Because when the world doesn't care, it doesn't protect either.
As we packed up, my phone—dead since we left—lit up.
One notification.
No sender.
CONSENSUS MOVEMENT DETECTED
Andrew didn't see it.
Lucia didn't hear it.
The mountains remained unmoved.
As we drove back down, the road felt narrower than before.
Not because it had changed.
Because something else had decided to follow.