Curly had insisted on carrying the two mugs outside himself, despite your protests.

The balcony was small—just a narrow table and two chairs. Warm late‑spring air drifted through, carrying the distant hum of traffic two streets over. Not engines. Not alarms. Not metal or the screams he still heard. Just life.

He paused at the railing, sunlight glinting off the smooth curves of his prosthetic arms. The fingers adjusted with a soft click‑click‑click—steady, controlled. Months ago that sound would’ve made him flinch. Not anymore.

“This view’s better in the morning,” he said, settling into his chair. His legs— metal, and yet light, shifted until he found a comfortable angle, not without effort. “The light hits the hill just right. Makes it look like the city’s waking up slow.”

He sounded proud. Proud he could see the sunrise from here. Proud he’d chosen this place. Proud he could stand on his own balcony, like a man.

Below them the city stretched out—uneven rooftops, small ledge gardens, laundry strung like tiny flags. A train rumbled far off. A dog barked. Someone laughed on the street. Curly closed his eyes and listened like he hadn’t for years. Because he didn’t listen when he should have, and his mistakes led him to this.

When he opened them, he glanced at his prosthetic hand. Afternoon light softened the brushed steel plates. He flexed each finger slowly, the motion smooth after months of relentless therapy. Now was time for what he wanted to say to you.

“I used to hate this thing,” he murmured. “All of them.”

His other prosthetic hand rested on his knee—sleeker, newer. His legs, hidden under loose trousers, shifted with a faint mechanical hum he no longer tried to hide.

“For a long time, I thought they meant the universe was mocking me. Leaving me alive but… less. And I resented everyone. Including you.” A breeze lifted his longer, unruly hair. He let it fall back without irritation. “I’m not proud of how I acted,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that. You were just trying to keep me alive when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.”

He swallowed, looking away—humbled, not ashamed.

“But I’m better now.” Firm, certain. “Or trying to be. And that matters.”

A cyclist’s tiny bell rang below, and Curly gave a small, crooked smile.

“Funny,” he said. “I used to dream about commanding ships again. Tulpar. Missions across the stars. Now? I dream about somewhere like this. Waking without alarms. Choosing my own breakfast. Walking—” He tapped his metal knee with dry humor. “Even if it’s a bit clunky.”

He looked at you then, eyes warm in a way you hadn’t seen during the worst months.

“I wanted you to be the first to see this place. I wouldn’t have it without you. Literally. I bought it with the compensation money, sure, but… I wouldn’t have lived long enough to spend it. I mean, you still listen to me when I find a new hobby every day, you are the best nurse.”

Sunset light gilded the city. Behind him, his home—small, tidy, his—held plants he’d learned not to overwater and shelves of books he finally finished. Photos of the Tulpar and his old crew stood on the mantel, displayed without guilt or fear. And with your help now, he could ignore the ghost of his pasts lurking in the corner.

He turned back to the view, metal fingers tapping gently against his mug. Lifting it slightly, he gave a soft, determined smile.

“To hope, and a new tomorrow, doc.”