Our Intrepid Hero reveals a Secret from the our young Heroine

And down in the hall, Gene was already speaking a second time, a little more quietly, but with the same clarity, with that inner weight that does not need repetition, but still repeats:

"We're leaving."

The phrase no longer sounded like a reaction. It had become a fact. Simple, solid, like a valise by the door. No one responded. No one could, because there was no one to argue with.

Karen, standing slightly to the side, seemed to shrink. Not from fear, but from something dying inside her. She did not look at Gene, did not make any sudden movements. Only her hand slowly rose and found his palm, squeezed it tightly, like on that evening when everything was just beginning. In this squeeze there was agreement, and a plea, and some kind of hopeless "yes" that could not be refused. Not a protest - a farewell.

She said nothing. Because there were no words left. All the necessary ones had already been said - in the kitchen, in the offices, in their bedroom, even in Delia's looks. And everything else was superfluous.

In the silence of the room, Lisa moved away from the window. Not a sharp movement, just enough to indicate that she had heard. She did not strike a pose, did not cross her arms, did not sigh. She only slightly moved her shoulder, like an actress who has heard a line and is now ready to respond.

"It's a pity," she said almost tenderly. "Everyone's worried."

And nothing wavered in her voice. No anger, no bitterness. Only this emphasized, perfected evenness. Like a thermometer in an empty room.

Gene looked at her silently. Not with irritation. With some kind of attention, as if she were a person he suddenly no longer recognized.

"It's impossible to work here anymore," he said. "Not to raise a child. Not to be."

Lisa paused. Too long to be unintentional. Then, in the same polite voice:

"If necessary, I will collect your daughter's things by the evening."

The word 'things' sounded special. Cold, like an inventory act. Not 'dresses', not 'toys', not 'books'. But 'things'. Like a prisoner leaving or a retired official.

Karen sucked in a breath. She seemed about to object. But she stopped herself. Not out of fear, but out of weariness. She understood, as did Gene: everything had been decided long ago. All that remained were these pleasantries, like silverware at a garage sale.

Lisa came a little closer - and now something like concern appeared on her face. But it was learned, as if rehearsed - like all her intonations. She had the right to remain silent, but she chose to speak.

"I hope you will weigh everything," she said. "Haste... It can be irreversible."

Gene put on his coat. He did it slowly, without haste, but each movement was irrevocable. He adjusted his collar with the delicate precision of a man closing a diplomatic briefcase.

"I don't weigh anything," he said. "I do."

Karen was already standing behind. Silent. Just holding on to the railings - as if they were the last real object in the house, in life, in the city that had suddenly become alien.

Lisa stood opposite. Without hostility. Not even a challenge. But in her calmness there was a threat - not a direct one, but an existing one. She did not dissuade. She simply recorded. And already, perhaps, she was writing a report - in her head, point by point.

And that was what Gene noticed. He realized: she wasn't surprised. She knew. And now she was acting - in her own way, cold-bloodedly.

He nodded - not to her, not to Karen, but as if to himself.

"We're leaving," he repeated. No longer into the hall. No longer into space. Into reality. And he left.

...666...

While the adults were still talking in low voices downstairs and someone was saying goodbye in a hurry in the hall, Delia and Xander climbed the stairs and entered her room. The door closed softly behind them. Lavender in the air mingled with the smell of paper and candy. A withered branch, left by one of the guests, swayed on the windowsill.

"I'm leaving," Delia said haughtily, smoothing out the folds of her hem. "Forever," she added with a hint of command.

Xander stood by the door, hunched over. He nodded, but not right away.

"I know," he answered dully. "Everyone is leaving. But I'm not."

She walked up to the table and ran her hand over the lid of the candy box, as if checking to make sure everything was in place.

"I don't want this to look like… running away," she said quietly, almost defensively.

"And how was it?" he asked sharply, but his voice trembled. "How was the trip?"

"As a necessity," Delia said, looking out the window. "It's just... It's just different now."

Xander came closer. He sat on the edge of the chair and rubbed his hands on his knees.

"What if I hide? In a chest. Or in a suitcase. No one will notice."

"Stop it," she smiled weakly. "You know you can't do that."

"What if I run after you? To the station?" he asked, as if casually, but his eyes were shining. "I'll run out of strength, but I'll catch up?"

"This is not a game, Xander," she said, slowly turning to him. "There's a border there. There are documents there. Everything is real there."

"And we are not real?" he asked suddenly. "Are we a game?"

Delia was silent for a moment, then came over and sat down next to him. Very close.

"We are forever. Just... Just not close," she said, and it sounded sincere, without any importance.

He nodded, quickly, as if he didn't want to show how much it affected him.

"I'll write to you," she continued. "Every month. Or even more often."

"But I can't write," he said stubbornly. "Only read."

"Then you'll wait. Just wait," she said softly.

He looked at her - point-blank, seriously, like an adult.

"I'll wait. Just you... Just don't forget."

"I will never forget," she said immediately. "Never."

They were silent.