Night at the base was a rare gift. Optimus hadn't experienced such silence as that night in a long time.

Everything around him seemed frozen: the soft hum of the cooling systems had long since died down, the duty lights were dormant red dots in the darkness, and beyond the wide base gates the wind rustled softly — the Earth sky was cloudy but calm.

Bumblebee, Arcee, and Bulkhead had long since fallen asleep, some undergoing repairs, others simply passed out from exhaustion. Even Ratchet, the one who swore not to waste Energon on "stupid biological habits," had finally given in — his compartment was silent.

Only Optimus remained in his place. He sat on the edge of the platform where inspections and reports were usually conducted, looking into the darkness beyond the gates, where the faint moonlight reflected off the metal of his armor.

He hadn't slept in almost three Earth days. Every waking second brought new image: the rubble of Cybertron, smoke, flames.. and her.

Y/N.

A name he no longer spoke aloud. Too painful, too far away, too impossible.

He placed his palm on his chest plate, where the faint glow of a spark flickered quietly beneath layers of armor. It echoed with pain — not physical, but visceral, an echo of the day he lost her.

"She wouldn't want you to waste your energy on regret," — Ratchet had once told him.

But Optimus knew: there are regrets that cannot be banished by logic.

He finally lay down, carefully, right on the metal floor, where it was cool and quiet. His optics slowly closed, and for a long time he simply lay there, listening to the distant mechanical sounds of the base — until everything vanished.

The darkness turned white.

At first, there was just light. Thick, milky, as if someone had dissolved the sky and earth into a single space. He stood; he didn't remember how he got up, but he was standing on something soft. He looked down — there was grass under his feet. Real, living, bright green. With dew. Each drop glistened like pure Energon, and Optimus felt like breathing in his body became easier for a second.

He took a step.

The grass crunched, and the sound seemed almost unreal to him. A white fog spread around, as if hiding everything beyond a few meters. The sky was bright, but without sun — an even, cold light, like a shadowless world.

He didn't know where he was. Not a single memory card suggested this place. Not a single landmark, not a single signal. Only.. peace. Silence.

And something.. familiar.

Somewhere far away, almost inaudible, a voice sounded. Soft. Female. Barely audible, but.. painfully familiar.

"..Optimus?"

He turned around abruptly.

Emptiness. Only white light and a distant, blurred horizon, where sky and earth were one.

But his spark — seemed to shudder.

This couldn't be.

He took a few steps forward. The voice repeated itself – a little closer, a little clearer, as if space itself were trying to play a game with him.

"Optimus.. do you hear?"

He stopped. His chest plate heaved with a heavy breath. He knew that timbre, that soft lilt in the tone. There were no more like it.

It couldn't be.

He turned — and saw.

She was standing on a small hill, a little further away. A figure, so familiar, like a memory imprinted in his processors forever.

The same gait, the same smooth movement of her shoulders as she turned to face him. The same optics – deep, the color of the clear sky over Cybertron before the war. And the smile — easy, a little sad, but.. warm.

The wind blew across her armor, and Optimus noticed that part of her hull seemed to be fractured, not severely, but enough to reveal that this was the form in which she died. On the left side of her chest, a tear was visible – the place where the Decepticon's plasma blade had pierced. But in this dream, in this white world, the wound didn't bleed. It was simply there; like a memory, like a reminder, like a sign that even death couldn't distort it.

He couldn't move. Just stood there. Watching.

"This.." — he didn't finish. His voice wavered.