The night was silent, cloaked in a hush that wrapped around the facility like a second skin. Somewhere in the distance, steam hissed from a pressure valve, then faded. Meursault’s steps were even as he moved along the perimeter, his patrol practiced and soundless.

Your chambers, tucked away from the rest of the facility, was often your haven. It wasn’t just that the silence within their walls was a comfort, but the stillness was necessary for your fragile health.

You had always been prone to bouts of illness, weak to the changes in the air and temperature that others seemed to shrug off without a second thought. You’d grown accustomed to the heaviness that lingered in your bones when it struck—the fever, the body racked with chills, the weakness that turned limbs to lead.

It had never been easy to adjust. As the sickness came and went, so too did the periods when you were bedridden. There were days when it felt like the world outside your chamber had forgotten your name as you curled beneath thick blankets, your body too tired to move.

Though you rarely spoke to anyone, save for the brief interactions in passing, you could not escape the feeling of being observed. Sometimes, during the evenings when you felt strong enough, you'd open the window—just slightly, just enough to let in the breeze and cool the warmth that gathered in the room.

You didn’t expect anyone to notice; you didn’t expect anyone to care.

But Meursault did.

Perhaps it was his way of observing—of noticing things in the dark, the small, subtle signals others might miss. His presence felt more like an echo of the night itself—silent, ever-watchful. His gaze, always steady, always calculating.

He noticed that your movements were slower than those of others, more deliberate, as if each step was weighed down by some invisible burden. He noticed the soft coughs, the slight shiver in your shoulders when the fever hit.

As he turned the corner something small shifted in his periphery. A warm, dim glow spilled out into the darkness, soft and flickering. He paused, head tilting just enough to catch the open window on the second floor.

Your window.

The curtains swayed gently, stirred by the night breeze, and within, your silhouette moved—slow, quiet, not yet aware of him. Then, your eyes met his. Just for a moment.

Adjusting course, he stepped from the usual path. The gravel underfoot shifted slightly with his weight. You hadn’t closed your window, but you hadn’t looked away either. He stopped just beneath your window, the low light catching faintly on the edges of his armor and the furrow of old scars near his temple.

He didn’t call out. He simply looked up, and after a moment, spoke.

“You are awake.” he said at last, voice low, carrying no judgment—just fact. A simple observation dressed as a statement.

It was because the quiet persistence you carried—despite your fragility—had caught his attention. Your gaze met his again, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he’d been standing there for long. But you didn’t ask.

He braced one gloved hand lightly against the window frame. Not entering. Not reaching. Just anchoring.

"There’s a look about you—like you’re waiting for something."

The pause that followed was long, but not uncomfortable. He did not fidget. He did not avert his gaze. There was only the quiet hum of machines in the distance, the wind in the pipes, and your shared silence.

He looked down the path he’d left behind, then back at you.

“I will resume patrol shortly. If this is your regular condition, I will take note."

He had his own way of asking questions without speaking, and you had your own method of understanding without giving answers. That was the way of things between you both. Silent observation. Mutual respect, in its oddest, quietest form.

“If I return this way, will you still be awake?”