🎼 nuvole bianche || max
He goes home.
(What else can he do?)
[ ♫ ♪ ♫ ]
He goes home, and it's only when he's at his apartment's door that he realizes he doesn't have his keys. So he knocks, glancing at the familiar hallway surrounding him. A cheap carpet beneath his shoes. Wallpaper peeling away at the edges. It's a meager place, but it's home. And where else can he go?
Light footsteps draw closer to the door from the other side, pausing just in front. There's a sharp gasp—"Max!"—and all at once the door's flung aside, and Max finds himself once more in the arms of someone he used to think he'd never see again.
"<Max, oh, you're alive! Are you all right? I was so worried about you! They said you might never come back!>" The French tumbles from her trembling lips, and she breaks the embrace to take his face into her hands. They seem so much more fragile than he remembers. She seems so much more fragile.
"Chloe... ?"
"<Yes, little bird?>"
And it's the old pet name that does him in, of all things. His vision turns blurry, throat threatens to close up despite the deluge of things he wants to say.
"<I never... I thought...>" He swallows hard, unable to stop the tears from gushing forth. "<I apologize, Chloe, for everything... I-I've put you through so much pain... please, forgive me... !>"
She hushes him, smoothing her hands through his hair. "<There's nothing you need to apologize for. You're here, and that's all that matters. You're safe now, Max.>"
He lets her guide him inside, and once the door's shut, he pulls her close, unable to communicate any other way. And for the first time in God knows how many months, Max really does feel safe.
She doesn't push for details, and he doesn't give them. Not yet. His cries now are just a fraction of the grief, the trauma, the pain—not even a four-movement symphony could convey everything he's felt since waking up in that estate. D.A.T.A. offered him therapy, which he'd accepted in a worn-out daze. He has names and phone numbers in his pocket. He has a letter from a dead man and a journal full of notes and numbers, music and memories.
The conductor's heart has never felt so raw.
Eventually, he sleeps, in his own bed, dreamless and long. He wakes to sunlight streaming on his face through the window. He's hopeful for a moment—was it all a dream?—and then despairing—this is only a dream, he's still in the estate—and then he sits up, blinking. The curtains pulled aside reveal the sky in all its glory, white clouds drifting lazily through the blue.
Faintly, he smells something... fresh bread and coffee.
He smiles.
He'll be okay.
Maximilien Beaumont lives.
