Chapter 21: The Poet and the Warden
The cafeteria was empty. It was always empty now. The tables were clean, the chairs were pushed in, the windows looked out at grey sky and falling snow. Wolfen sat in the corner, the isolated table where no one else ever sat. His back was to the wall. His eyes were on the ceiling.
Warden sat down beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. She bumped her fist against his shoulder—light, friendly, the kind of bump that said I'm here without saying anything at all.
"Hmm." Wolfen didn't look at her.
She signed. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, so he could follow without having to turn his head.
What's troubling you, big dumb idiot?
Wolfen's lips twitched. "You know that's my line, right?"
Who cares? Now it's mine.
He looked at the ceiling again. The lights were old, flickering, casting shadows that moved like they had somewhere better to be.
"How was your universe's me?" His voice was quiet. "Did he have a good past? A happy life? Someone who cared about him?"
Warden watched him for a long moment. Then she signed.
His past was fucked. His present was a nightmare. But he had people who cared about him.
Wolfen nodded slowly. "Did he ever try to kill himself?"
Warden's hands stilled. Then:
I only saw him do it once. To protect us. While fighting the Child God.
Wolfen exhaled—long, slow, like he'd been holding it for years. "What even is life about? Even before the collapse, life was hard. And now it's on a whole different level."
But you have to enjoy it. Warden's signs were firm. No matter what. You have to enjoy life.
Wolfen looked at his hands. The scars. The calluses. The hands that had built and destroyed and built again.
"I destroyed myself and never felt pity." His voice was flat. "You want to know why I never felt pity for myself?"
Warden waited. She didn't sign. Didn't move. Just waited.
"Because I don't deserve it." His golden eyes found hers. "I've done so many horrible things. Not just physically—in my thoughts too. I've manipulated people. Killed people. Killed myself so many times." He paused. "Suffering isn't the enemy. Not understanding it is."
Warden's visible eye softened. She signed slowly, teasing.
When did you become a poet, love boy? I know you like Zoey. A lot.
She bumped her shoulder against his, playful, gentle.
"Every man can become a poet after he suffers." Wolfen's voice was quiet. "And when he loves someone more than himself."
Warden signed. Her hands were careful.
But you have feelings for her.
Wolfen looked away. "I don't want to. Because I know—if I love someone, they'll either die. Or leave me. Or I'll have to leave them." He paused. "For me, love is just another form of suffering."
Warden stared at him. Then she signed, sharp, almost angry.
Shit. You're all the same. Every version of you. No matter which universe.
"It's like I'm designed to suffer."
They sat in silence. The lights flickered. The shadows moved. Outside, snow fell on snow, covering the world in white.
Warden reached over and took his hand. Not romantically. Not gently. Just... there. A hand holding his.
She signed with her other hand.
You're not designed for anything. You're not a machine. You're not a weapon. You're a person. A stupid, stubborn, self-destructive person who thinks he doesn't deserve to be happy.
Wolfen stared at their hands.
But you do. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to love someone and be loved back. You deserve to wake up in the morning and not feel like the world is crushing you.
His throat moved.
You're not broken, Wolfen. You're just hurt. And hurt can heal.
He didn't answer.
She squeezed his hand.
It takes time. It takes work. But it can heal.
Wolfen looked at the ceiling. At the flickering lights. At the shadows that moved like they had somewhere better to be.
"Maybe," he said.
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't a plan. It was just a word.
But it was something.
They sat together in the empty cafeteria, holding hands, watching the snow fall, and for a moment, the world was quiet.