Page 32 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Dante's posture relaxes at my words. "I've already had my heart broken, Virgil. I can take it."

I look at this man, this person who has absorbed heartbreak after heartbreak and hardened himself so he'd never have to be vulnerable again. Never hungry. Never abandoned. Never manipulated or used. But in constructing those walls, he lost something. Something this door is about to reveal.

I nod for us to move forward, keeping my eyes fixed on the silver surface. Part of me wants to step between him and it, declare that there might be another way around. Another part knows he must face this, and that I couldn't physically stop him even if I wished to.

He reaches the handle and turns it without a flinch of hesitation.

14

DANTE

The room transforms the moment Virgil and I step inside. I can sense his hesitation—the way his feet drag against the threshold, the tension in his shoulders. It makes me wonder if whatever he does to connect with my mind has linked us in some deeper way. Dread rolls off him and echoes into me, hollowing a pit in my stomach. If I were alive, my hands would grow clammy. That was a tell I always hated. One I could never train away, no matter how many negotiations I sat through.

Now my body seems to have no connection to my emotional state at all. Leaving the last genesis, running through my memories, my heart should have raced until it ached. But there's still no heartbeat. No pulse. Nothing but the quietly ticking watch face on my wrist.

I keep my emotions off my face regardless. That's a skill I've long possessed, and I somehow feel that my distress about facing whatever this room holds would upset Virgil. I don't understand why, nor do I comprehend why it’s imperative not to further burden this man.

Perhaps it's simply because that last room has me reflecting on the harm I've done others.

And Virgil is one more in a long list.

I asked him to continue with me. To walk through his temptations. To face his pain. And he did so with minimal complaint.

The space is bright, early morning light seeps through a north-facing window in a modern home. Clean lines, warm wood, the kind of casual elegance that costs more than it appears. Virgil's eyes trace the scene like a scientist landing on a new planet, absorbing as much as he can in his brief time here.

My eyes catch on the bed. Or rather, the man sleeping on it.

Matthew has aged. Even in sleep, there are wrinkles around his eyes now, a few strands of gray threading through his dark hair. He has an arm thrown back carelessly against the pillow. Another arm appears from beneath the covers and wraps around his waist. A man leans down and kisses his cheek.

"Time to wake up."

"Five more minutes," Matthew grumbles.

Of course. Matthew was never a morning person.

The man nuzzles into Matthew's neck. "If you don't wake soon, you won't have a minute to yourself. And you know you need it in the morning.”

"I want sleep, not alone time."

The man chuckles, pulls Matthew closer. "Future Matthew will not appreciate that sentiment."

Matthew grumbles, but he's smiling. The door flies open, and two children bounce into the room and onto the bed faster than physics should reasonably allow. The youngest one, perhaps not yet old enough for school, has a mess of soft curls haloed around her face.

"Daddy! Papa! It's Christmas! Santa came! Hurry, wake up! You have to come see!"

"Five minutes," Matthew repeats.

The older child plants fists on his hips. "You're going to make your cinnamon rolls, aren't you, Daddy?"

Matthew opens a single eye and grins at the boy. "Maybe."

The little girl gasps and leaps onto the other man. "Papa, tell Daddy he has to make us cinnamon rolls, and he has to get up now."

"Matthew," the man intones, solemn as a judge laying down a verdict. "You heard your daughter."

Matthew groans, but there's a laugh laced into it. "I'm up. I just need five minutes."

"I think Santa mentioned," the other man says, "that there might be something special waiting in the foyer."