Epiphany
It dawns on him in a day that is not special at all.
It is more of a joke of chance – a series of casualties, of small thoughts and gestures, that makes all fall into place for the first time.
It starts early in the morning, in front of the mirror. A single white hair falls on smooth porcelain, between water drops and his tired reflection. He finds it harder each morning to ignore the grey strands.
He remembers his hair like it used to be, fair and strong, with its fierce ginger reflections. He sighs. Avoiding the memory of the olden days is starting to cost him too much effort.
On the way to his office, he has a date with his nasty little cough. He has already noticed how the fits get longer with the passing weeks. He is a man who notices everything, or so he likes to think. He walks on as soon as he can catch his breath.
Any hope to forget is crushed twenty-six minutes later. She walks in all in one piece, despite the glory and the dreams falling apart around them. It is the usual hot coffee, no sugar, no cream, and the same cheerful tone she has managed to hold together through thick and thin.
He has no idea how she does it. Maybe it is true – she is a miracle after all.
"Morning, sir."
Nothing has changed about her, really. Whatever is new must be in his eyes. But he cannot stop marveling, more than all the other times.
Her normality is amazing.
There are the new test results, the ones with the moon rocks. She is delighted. He listens to half of it all.
Her voice gradually turns into a cluster of sounds, devoid of a sense, yet so subtly charming. Her enthusiasm rings loud, just beneath her perfectly trained self-control. He pays little attention to figures and data – he focuses on her glistening eyes instead, on the care, on her sheer joy.
And he is convinced.
"Just look at this, sir," she whispers, as an entire horizon of perspectives overwrites the papers she is handing him.
He decides for himself. He decides for her. He knows his limits – so he believes – and there is no one else he would entrust himself to.
She is smiling, against all odds, as she waits for his response. She is brave, good and irreplaceable – she is younger, so much younger than him, on the inside.
It dawns on him in just one moment, after a buildup of years, what the future of Aperture should be. He understands, and he makes up his mind without return.
She must be the one, if not him. Were he to die soon – and the ache in his chest gets louder, fueled by bitterness – he would write down her fate first, on every shred of paper, to his dying breath. With him gone, there must not be any other way.
And she will follow, as she always did. He refuses to doubt it.
She is just too beautiful to let her say no.