He placed it between you, then took out a small, worn book — not government-issued, not approved. You recognized the binding: a dōjin anthology from before the Consolidation. Poetry, probably illegal.
You found him packing a single bag. He looked up at you, and for the first time, his silence wavered.
Not for light. For the flame.
He smiled. Not arrogantly. Gently. "Yes. That’s why I keep it." The days passed.
One night, the power went out — a scheduled blackout, like all things. No screens. No Emperor’s voice. Just the dark and the sound of rain on the tin roof of your shared unit. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, waiting for the silence to crush you. He placed it between you, then took out
He knelt, lifted your chin with one finger. "Then don't let them win after I'm gone. Watch the sky. Light a candle. Remember that the hollow age is hollow only because we empty ourselves." He left that night. You never saw him again.
You were assigned to live with him. Not by choice — the Housing Harmonization Bureau matched citizens based on “psychological complementarity,” which was bureaucracy for we don’t have enough space, so deal with it . You found him packing a single bag
You bowed to him.