Epilogue Three Months Later
EREBUS
Three months in, Sunday mornings have become an invention unique to this house.
Calliope sleeps curled beneath the blankets, one foot tucked beneath my leg and her hair spread across the pillow in every direction.
She has explained to me several times that human sleep benefits from personal space, and after being accused of breathing on her with enough force to create visible condensation, I have taken the matter seriously.
Each night, I calibrate my position with scientific rigor, allowing her precisely the amount of space she claims to require.
She inevitably crosses into mine before morning.
This morning, she stirs at 6:47, blinking sleepily at me before glancing toward the clock.
“What time is it?”
“6:47.”
Her gaze travels toward the window, where the last stars remain scattered across a sky that should have surrendered them three minutes ago.
Slowly, she looks back at me.
“Erebus. Why is it still night?”
“It is not entirely night.”
“I can literally see stars.”
“They are fading.”
Calliope reaches for her phone, squinting at the screen before giving me a look I have become intimately familiar with over the past three months.
“Sunrise was three minutes ago.”
“Two minutes and forty-eight seconds.”
She groans and pulls the comforter over her head. “We discussed this.”
“It is Sunday.”
Her face reappears from beneath the blankets, hair thoroughly disordered. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Petra does not teach yoga on Sundays, so delaying Dawn does not disrupt the community schedule.”
For several seconds, Calliope only stares at me.
“You are seriously holding the sun for me?”
“I thought you might appreciate a longer morning.”
The irritation in her face softens despite her obvious effort to maintain it. She rolls closer and presses a kiss against my jaw.
“That is profoundly sweet and also, and I cannot emphasize this enough, deeply unethical.”
“I can release Dawn immediately.”
“You should.”
I prepare to do exactly that when a violent pounding rattles the apartment door.
Calliope freezes beside me.
“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”
I recognize Petra’s voice immediately.
Calliope closes her eyes and drops her forehead against my shoulder.
“How does she know?” I ask.
“She’s fueled by spite.”
Another round of pounding follows, accompanied by a threat involving Zadok, the town council, and what I believe is a tire iron.
Calliope drags herself from bed and pulls on her robe before marching into the living room. I follow her, curious to learn how Petra detected a discrepancy of less than three minutes from across town.
When Calliope opens the door, Petra stands in the hallway wearing slippers and a bathrobe, with a sleep mask shoved onto her forehead. Her rocky face is set in an expression of profound betrayal.
She points at me.
“Three minutes.”
“Two minutes and forty-eight seconds.”
“THAT IS NOT BETTER.”
“You do not teach yoga on Sundays.”
“That is not the point.”
“You have said that before.”
Petra's eyes narrow. “Because you keep doing things that are not the point.”
Calliope presses her lips together, although not quickly enough to hide her smile.
“Let the sun up, Erebus.”
I do.
Morning spills through the apartment windows, warm and golden, illuminating the hallway and Petra’s deeply unimpressed face. She squints against the sudden brightness before pointing at me again.
“Tuesday. Sunrise yoga. You’re coming.”
“I am flexible.”
“You better learn to be.”
With that, she turns and stomps down the hallway, muttering something about cosmic narcissists and filing another complaint with the mayor.
Calliope closes the door and leans against it, laughing.
“You realize she's going to check the sunrise every morning for the rest of her life now.”
“I believe she already does.”
“Probably.” She comes toward me and slips her arms around my waist. “No more delaying Dawn.”
“I understand.”
“Ever.”
I hesitate only long enough for her eyes to narrow.
“I understand.”
Satisfied, she takes my hand and leads me back toward the bedroom as sunlight spreads through the apartment.
Once, I believed eternity was the greatest measure of value, but Calliope has taught me otherwise. This life is finite, filled with ordinary mornings, burnt coffee, unreasonable goats, angry rock monsters and a woman who leaves every day with no promise beyond her desire to return.
That is what makes every moment precious.
Night will come again. It always does.
And when it does, I will be here.
THE END