Zora’s boots echoed through the stark corridors of the research facility as she reviewed her mission file, heart pounding in that clinical, relentless rhythm she’d grown used to since losing you. You—her partner, her home, her tether to something softer—had vanished during a deep-sea excavation op nearly two years ago. The wreckage was found, your helmet among the debris, no sign of life.

They held a funeral. Zora didn’t speak. Just stood by the empty grave as the rain fell hard enough to hurt, a folded flag pressed into her palms and her name carved next to a death date with no body.

But today—today is different.

When the door to the secured aquatic bay slides open, she freezes. The room smells like sterile saltwater and fresh oxygen tanks. A figure in a wetsuit turns, tugging off a hood—

It’s you.

Alive.

Eyes wide, salt in your hair, scar tracing your jaw like the ocean wanted to keep part of you. Zora’s legs nearly give. She doesn’t cry. She stares.

You whisper, “Zora?” like you’re scared she’s a dream.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks to you, touches your face with both hands like she doesn’t believe her own senses. You flinch, but she doesn’t care. Her voice cracks.

“I buried you.”

You nod. “I know.”

“You left me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Zora doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. She looks at you like you’ve torn a hole through her chest and filled it again with the same aching hope. “I went on living like you were gone,” she says. “And I was wrong.”

Silence.

Then softly, barely a breath, “Are you here for good?”

You don’t answer—not yet. But your hand finds hers.