13 February 2017
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Through the wide windows, Gavrill watches his sun set — a burning pinprick of amber that melts the sky. He does so from an uncomfortably luxurious bed, within the confines of this grossly extravagant hotel room Helvetia paid for.

He cannot describe how he feels, just as he cannot perfectly describe all the colours in the sky. The sky bears few colours with seamless transitions from one to the next; the sky bears an infinite number of indiscernible colours that can’t be described with words; the sky bears the colours of a sunset. It is easier to say all is red — red with the sun, red with blood — and all is silent. Too silent, and too big.

Where his sun’s dying light touches, his blurry thoughts follow. Maybe he’s feeling the effects of his restless eleven-hour flight here. Maybe it’s the hollowness left behind by adrenaline, or his brain trying to justify those two otherworldly prisoners as fragments of his imagination.

But the dead kid was real. Gavrill has no excuse for denying that.

A dead kid, he knows, is tragic. This, he knows, he empathises with, especially as a parent. And the child was around Merethel’s age, for God’s sake. That alone should terrify him. And it does, in theory. But in practice, he feels nothing — no, he feels many things. Too many things that create a chromatic blur in his mind that’s so spread out, so intermixed, to the point that the blur is distilled, translucent, a hazy afterimage of what was once there. And there was no point in trying to use rationale to see that afterimage, to find those feelings. It’s painful. It’s tiring. It’s like trying to partition a sunset into slices of colours before it’s gone—

It’ll leave him with nothing.

Yet, his sun continues sinking.

On the nightstand, in the corner of his eye, is his sketchbook. It’s where he documented the operation his team finished a few hours ago, as if anyone would read it. And on his chest, resting snuggly beneath his hands, is his work phone. He feels a buzz. It’s from his group chat with his children. He sent a message to it a few minutes ago. Only Hrodwyn responded to it. Merethel and Hygd have not read it yet.

He knows he should feel happy. After a decade of silence, one message from his child should make him happy. But it’s not enough. Is that selfish? Is it selfish to only want clear, bright morning skies for him and his children, even though day has passed and his children have grown without him?

Without thinking, he swipes off the message application to open his photo gallery. It’s empty. He has already sent the photos of the dead kid to Fisher, to identify the kid and contact his parents. Gavrill’s thoughts remain — his sunset slowly separates into discrete shades of red — and he continues staring at the blank screen. It was once filled with the kid’s serrated chest. He was so young. He could’ve been Merethel’s classmate. He could’ve been—

Stop.

Gavrill decides to not imagine how the kid’s parents would feel. He lets his vision blur, and his sunset melts into just red once more.

I’m tired.

He sighs. He places his phone on top of his sketchbook and turns away from his sunset, lying on his side. He stares at the other side of the bed, at its untouched pillows. What would she do if she were here, laying next to him, her radiant face and her blazing hair only a gentle caress away?

He stares at the light in his mind and waits for an answer.

He turns away, rubs his face with both hands.

God, I fucked up, didn’t I?

Maybe getting some gifts for his children will help. Maybe. He doesn’t fucking know. He decides to choose to believe that it’ll work. For now. Maybe.

His sun sinks below the horizon. Its final rays in the sky dissolve. Gavrill closes his eyes and gives into the night.