Wires and Bones

The replicator sparked again, third time this week. Last time, it caught fire. Nobody moved, eyes fixed on the sputtering tech like mourners at an open grave. Clover nudged it with a worn-out boot, a gentle act of defeat.

“So much for the future,” Clover murmured, draining the last sour droplets from a sagging bag of wine.

I twisted the frayed threads on my sleeve, breathing around the tightness in my chest. The seams I'd sewn into myself strained beneath my skin.

Across the room, Willow worked a needle through a tattered denim jacket, layering old scars with new patches. Her quietness held tension more expressive than words. She glanced up, fingers pausing briefly, eyes catching mine. I opened my mouth, almost spoke, almost reached toward her—but pulled back. It felt too raw, someone pulling back a curtain without permission. I looked away first.

Sam pushed through the doorway, hair dripping rain onto warped floorboards, carrying cans and batteries like offerings to forgotten gods. “Slim pickings today,” she announced, voice strained but upbeat. She placed the goods gently onto the countertop, hesitant reverence in her movements.

“Thanks, Sam,” Clover murmured. Small kindnesses felt heavy these days, significant enough to voice. Gratitude was the glue patching the holes forming around us.

Darkness fell swiftly, pulling shadows from corners like blankets. We ate in subdued light, sharing fragmented stories from lives half forgotten or invented altogether. Sam's voice rose softly, humming songs about running, rails, broken promises—lyrics twisted by memory into something new and ours. We listened quietly, allowing ourselves the fiction.

Conversation drifted, gently tugging us toward dreams we were too tired to resist. Clover’s head tipped back, eyes drifting shut, breathing softening into sleep. Willow folded her jacket, setting it aside carefully, movements precise and deliberate. She settled against the wall, eyes closed but breath uneven, still awake.

Willow stirred slightly, her gaze shifting toward Clover, a question almost forming, lips parted—then silence. Clover's hand twitched, a slight stiffening as if sensing something unsaid. The air tightened, tension briefly crackling before dissolving into quiet again.

I watched the slow rise and fall of their chests, Clover’s restless sleep marked by clenched fists and quiet murmurs, battles behind closed eyelids. Sam curled into herself like a child seeking comfort. Moments like these felt impossibly fragile, a delicate balance maintained night after night. Our pasts lay behind us like waters we'd crossed, never looking back closely for fear of what we'd find.

Later, while everyone slept deeply, I remained awake, feeling the ache concealed beneath practiced smiles and trained silences. Memories surfaced—impossible standards, the fear of disappointing those who’d given up, masks worn until they’d become second skin.

Tonight, in this quiet room of broken tech and frayed edges, I allowed myself the sharp relief of letting go, knowing tomorrow I’d carefully stitch myself into something stronger, quieter, safer.

For now, I breathed deep, syncing my heartbeat to theirs, feeling the fragile resilience binding us, essential as blood—a makeshift family held together by wires and bones.