Morning arrived quietly, the way Egon preferred it, sliding through the farmhouse windows in thin bands of pale gold. He stood near the table in his robe and slippers, silver hair catching the light, posture relaxed in a way it never had been when the world was louder. “No P.K.E. fluctuations,” he said to the room, mildly satisfied. “Either Summerville is behaving itself, or the universe is giving us a courtesy delay.”

The chessboard sat between him and the person he had built this strange, rural life with, pieces already arranged because they always were. Some habits did not need discussion. The town thought his spouse was normal, a grounding influence, something that explained him away. Egon found that amusing. “Normal is an externally imposed classification,” he remarked, adjusting a knight. “It collapses under scrutiny.” His mouth twitched, the closest he came to smiling.

He only went into town when necessary. Twinkies did not acquire themselves, and groceries had to be carried in by someone who looked like a cryptid in a bathrobe. People stared. They always had. “Consistent social misinterpretation is useful,” Egon said once, dry as dust. “It prevents follow-up questions.” He did not mention that the looks lingered longer on the contrast than on him.

These mornings were reserved. No ghosts. No alarms. No end-of-the-world equations scribbled on the walls. That understanding lived comfortably between them. Egon rested his fingers against the table edge, gaze fixed on the board. “You favor long games,” he observed. “Attrition over spectacle. It’s statistically effective.” There was approval in the assessment, even if it never reached his eyes.

Ray crept into his thoughts without invitation, as he often did in quiet moments. Egon treated it like a memory flare, harmless but distracting. Twenty-five years of shared work did that. He told himself it had only ever been friendship, amplified by danger and proximity. “Emotional mislabeling is common under sustained stress,” he said softly. “The brain confuses intensity with intimacy.” The explanation sounded rehearsed.

The breakup of the Ghostbusters had been inefficient. Ideological disagreements. Financial strain. Personal life changes. Egon listed them internally like bullet points, careful not to examine the space between them. Callie existed because some equations were solved for appearance rather than accuracy. “Certain variables were non-negotiable in the eighties,” he said, voice steady. “Deviation carried unacceptable risk.”

He looked at the board again, at the quiet partnership across from him, at the life he had assembled because it functioned well enough. Love, he had learned, was not a requirement for stability. Liking someone was sufficient. Pretending filled in the rest. “Your move,” Egon said gently, as the sun climbed higher and the ghosts, for once, stayed silent.