Wheatley is convinced that there's something locked inside him.

The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he is. Sometimes when he's out and about, there are flashes of things he thinks he should remember: a little girl, a piano, a playground, a studio, lab coats, microphones, paperwork. Other times, he wakes up in the middle of the night, moonlight pouring in, and it feels like his skull has been cracked open, spilling rivers of liquid memories across the pillow.

And it's frustrating, maddening, because he can't hold onto a bloody thing. Any glimpses that pop to the forefront of his brain are shoved beneath the surface of his consciousness just as quickly. He can't dredge them up because he has nothing to go on. They just… disappear. Vanish.

On top of this, he has headaches that last for longer than he thinks they should. He hears a distant hum when he's alone and drifting off, whispering in his head. And most worryingly, the jumble of things among his ribs twist and somersault when she's near.

Honestly, it's like humans malfunction more than machines. Who would've thought?

"Wheatley." The sharp snap of Thomas's thumb and forefinger jolts him back to reality. "Are you still with us?"

"Yes, still here, sorry." Scrunching his eyes shut, drowsy, Wheatley rubs at them with the heel of his palm. "Just a bit tired, that's all."

"You're supposed to be sorting." Thomas thumbs his plaid coat's brown lapel as he glances down at the stacks of music cluttering the desk. "I don't believe that's even a quarter finished."

"Well, hey, you know, this sort of thing takes time. You can't just rush perfection. Or… something like that. However that saying goes. I don't actually know. But go on, here." He splays his fingers across the already sorted sheets, pushing them toward the old man. "Have a look."

Thomas pushes his thick spectacles up his nose and peers down at Wheatley's work. He paws through the pages, inspecting their arrangement.

"Looks good so far," he affirms. "Alphabetical order by instrument, yes, good. Ah, starting with Carmen? Good choice."

"Wait, what?" Wheatley drags a page back toward him with a thin finger and flips it around. At the top, printed in bold, capital letters, reads:

CARMEN

And just beneath, in smaller, curvier font:

Prelude

Georges BIZET

(1838-1875)

"Oh," says Wheatley. "So it is. Yes, yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?" His eyes glance down at the scores and the flowing notes. Lots of instruments are listed among the lines; violin, flute, bass, various percussion... He supposes this must be a copy that a director would use to keep track of everyone. He rubs a knuckle along his temple in thought. "Um, so, what exactly is this 'Carmen'?"

"Carmen? It's an opera. And a very good opera, at that. An excellent one. Love, grief, jealousy, tragedy all mixed in. One of my favorites, actually." Thomas's mouth dons a withered smile. "After you finish putting that into its proper binder, would you like to hear? Give you a taste of the wonders of music?"

"Oh, yes, that'd be tremendous!" Wheatley replies. "I'm only acquainted with—well, not a lot, if I'm honest. I've heard a bit of Bach, I think. Or was it Beethoven? Pretty sure it was Bach. Some sort of B-starting name or something like that. Lovely music, though. Very… uh, classical. Right. Classical."

The old man's face wrinkles with what Wheatley thinks is skepticism. Or pity. Or maybe a bit of both. He's not buying it.

"… Right." He tries to swallow but a knot has formed in the bottom of his throat. "Okay, well, I'll be here. Sorting. Shouldn't be too much longer. Hopefully. But remember, you can't rush perfection."

"Take your time," says Thomas. "It'll be a minute, anyhow." He thinks he can see Thomas rub his forehead with his palm as he turns away, but he's not positive.

Well. That could have gone better, he thinks. But it could have gone worse. He really shouldn't try to talk musicians to a music buff. Seriously, what kind of idea was that?

Mentally kicking himself, Wheatley continues gathering the remaining music sheets and shuffling them one by one into their appropriate places in the binder. Each instrument's copy is parted by a colored divider and labeled with a small, inserted tab with the respective name scrawled in Wheatley's scraggly script.

As he's sorting the sheets, he pauses briefly to browse through one of the scores. He runs a knobby thumb thoughtfully down the length of the page, letting the notes sink in. There are dozens of them that dot the lines, sweeping across each sheet, ringing a bell somewhere in the deepest chambers of his brain. That flittering familiar feeling ghosts about his head, feathery and light, and he really wishes he knew why.

It's so strange, he thinks, so peculiar, feeling like you should remember something when you can't remember it at all. If only he could better remember his dreams, nightmares, whatever they are, then maybe he could figure out what's locked away. If he could—

Oh.

His mind is rewinding to the night before, the dream, the little girl, but that's not what's made his breath snag. The lump in his throat dissolves and there is a sudden pleasurable elation swelling between his lungs and he remembers:

Chell was in his room last night, wasn't she?

Part of him flashes to Oh, good, looks like I'm malfunctioning again, isn't that lovely, but another dives into the sensation of how close she was, how warm and soft her hand felt, how nice she smelled, and how much he wanted to hold her to him and never let go and just sink, sink, sink into that blissful haze because he's never felt so wonderful, so peaceful, so right.

And she did that hugging thing again, didn't she?

Yes, god, she did, and it felt good. Incredibly, amazingly good. His nerves start to dance and shivers take root in the base of his spine and curl up his back as he recalls the heat of her tiny hand clasped with his and the press of her cheek against his collarbone. Her closeness, her skin, the warmth of her, everything; he's compelled to immerse himself, to feel and touch and smell and—

Wheatley notices that his heart has begun to pound against his ribs. He brings a hand to his shirt's breast pocket, presses it down, spreading flat, smoothing the powder-blue fabric, and that gentle thump-thump meets him, pulsing steadily beneath his palm.

He wishes he could understand why he's feeling like this. No one else affects him this way. Not Thomas, not people on the street. Just… her. Only her.

And… she's having nightmares, isn't she? That's why she was there. She couldn't sleep.

Something plucks away at the edges of his heart beneath his skin and guilt sluices his thoughts. He doesn't need to ask her what she dreams of. He already knows. Or, well, at least he believes he does. It's not like there's a lot to choose from, honestly. Either it's him or it's Her.

Of course, She was nothing short of a proper maniac. And he… well, he was somewhere far beyond.

Bottomless chasms, clouds of neurotoxin, spiked death machines, explosives. He hunted her, chased her, forced her to test for his own pleasure, and nearly killed her on more than one occasion. And through the gaping void of the portal, with the earth spanning the black horizon and with the face of the moon beneath and the stars bursting so far beyond, he told her to let go.

In that vast emptiness, he told her to let go.

Wheatley has paused between pages. He can't make himself move. It feels like something's pouring down his throat and filling him up with roiling fire, searing straight to the marrow.

He had blamed her. Damned her. Called her terrible things and told her he hated her.

And still, in spite of that, in spite of all the wrong he's done, she held him in the field as he drowned in his own apologies. She took him from There with a hand against his back; she helped him walk down the weathered asphalt, away from the shed and the labyrinth and the horrors toward civilization, toward humanity. She fed him, gave him shelter, kept him warm. She let him into her home.

Wheatley gazes down at his hand. His fingers are elongated and thin, bone pushing up from his knuckles down. His wrist bone juts out awkwardly, and through his paleness, he can see the roping lines of dark veins. He tries to imagine the small frame of her hand fitting through his, her fingers folding between his own, and the thought punctures shame through his chest. It twists in the breathing chambers of his heart and blossoms through webbing arteries, nestling in muscle and unfurling out with every exhale.

God, he thinks. It's a wonder Chell can sleep at all.

Wheatley finds himself leaning against the desk, fists coiled tight. There's a tumult inside of him that he can't control. His eyes burn and there's wetness collecting in the corners.

He's got to make it up to her somehow. He has to. Really, really has to. He's not sure if words can never mend what he's done. Maybe if he can help her speak again, or even if he can't, if he can help her in some other way.

Someday, if he's lucky, she might forgive him.

Wheatley draws in a deep, shaky breath, and tries to find his focus. Now isn't exactly the time for this, is it? Not really the sort of thing to be dwelling on at work. He'll have to talk to her when he gets home. Make her tea (better this time, minus the burning), have another lesson or three so he can hear her voice again, the one private thing she's locked away from the world, and yet… shared with him.

In a way, he's already lucky, isn't he?

Wheatley manages to weld the cracks of his composure. He places the last few copies between the dividers, and then closes the binder. The finishing touch is a large label taped onto the front. A smaller one gets pressed onto the spine. He inscribes each with "BiZEt" in bold, black marker.

"There," he says, admiring his work. "Looks quite good, if I do say so myself. Very proper. Very professional. Neat, tidy, sorted, and labeled. All ready for the shelf."

Pleased, Wheatley straightens himself, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He cranes his neck to scans the aisles of gleaming instruments in hopes of spotting Thomas, but even with his generous height, the clerk is nowhere to be found.

"Oi, all done now!" calls Wheatley. "Hey, where'd you pop off to?"

"I'm in the back office!" Thomas's voice resonates from within the depths of the shop. "Come along now, it's all set!"

Wheatley pushes the binder to the side of the desk, away from the still-to-be-sorted pile. He strolls down the narrow aisles of boxes, papers, oils, brass, and wood, and as he draws closer to the cozy office at the end, an overture of strings and cymbals crescendos through the parted oak door to meet him.

Interest piqued, he peers inside, forehead resting against the worn jamb. The music is most certainly coming from here, but originating from… well, he's not entirely sure. There's something that looks like a box that's perched on Thomas's desk, nestled between photographs of Lottie. It's covered in buttons and dials of various kinds, and a black disc sits upon it, spinning. Pairs of coupled wires stretch across and connect to two larger boxes placed just behind it that seem to have some sort of fabric down their fonts. Speakers, perhaps?

"A turntable," Thomas supplies, seeming to sense Wheatley's unspoken question. "It's incredibly old, you know. You could search for ages and not find another in as good of a condition as this one. Oh, come on in now, don't just stand there. It's not going to bite."

"It's brilliant," says Wheatley, squeezing his lanky body through the door. He cautiously approaches the turntable and bends down to further inspect it, hands resting on knobby knees. Leaning closer, he notices that the disc is being touched by what appears to be a needle, held in place by a small, arm-like fixture. How strange.

Struck with wonderment, he focuses on the music. He can't hear it all that well; it's a bit soft with murmuring static, but instruments are trilling away in the overture, bright and strong, and he wonders which creates which sound.

"This," he says, now leaning across the desk, ear close to a speaker, "this is 'Carmen'?"

"Yes, it is. I have records of the whole opera," says Thomas. "Both the turntable and the records were my grandfather's. His grandfather before him passed them down through the family."

"Wow. That's an awful lot of grandfathers," says Wheatley.

"It's an awful lot of time," says Thomas. He reaches out with a thick, wrinkled hand and brings it lovingly along the side of the turntable. "This is an antique. Far older than me, or anyone else for that matter."

"Would you show me?" he asks, pulling away from the desk. "How to make this? The music, that is. You said you'd teach me to read it, right?"

"There's a difference between reading music and creating it," says Thomas. "But, from how you played before… Well, I don't think you'll need much teaching. A refresher, maybe. Either you're a genius prodigy who can master an instrument in minutes, or you've played the piano at some point in your life, even if you can't remember it." Thomas arches a bushy eyebrow. "How's that going, by the way? The memory loss. Coping all right? Remembering at all?"

"No. No, not really." Wheatley laces his fingers and begins to hook and stretch them around one another. Cartilage pops between muscle and bone. "Well, okay, sort of. Bits and pieces. Small things. Only pieces, though. Nothing ever complete, you know? Just… things that feel like they're familiar somehow, like I've seen them before. But a whole lot of good that does me. Nothing ever seems to come of it. And it's frustrating. Really, really frustrating. And the worst thing is it's not like I'm forcing myself or anything—just sort of… happens. Willy nilly. For no reason at all."

He chews at the corner of his mouth and his knuckles blanch, fingers pressing together. "I feel… a bit stupid about the whole thing, if I'm honest."

"Hm." Thomas scratches at his chin stubble and his mouth twists oddly. "Well, tell you what, boy. When you start remembering a little more, I'll help you out. And I mean remembering useful things. Places, names, people. Things like that. Things we can work with. We'll see if we can try to figure out what's going on with you."

"Help me out? How're you going to manage that?" Wheatley folds his arms, incredulous, hands resting against his ribs. "Well, not that I'm ungrateful or anything, because I'm not. Ungrateful, that is. I do appreciate the offer, I really do, don't get me wrong, but I mean, honestly, I can barely help myself most of the time. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't—" He pauses, mouth open, jaw set. Wheatley, shut up, shut up. He pinches the skin on his sides to stop himself. The music continues to fill the air and it pulls through his eardrums. "Uh, never mind. I don't… really know where I was going with that."

"I wasn't always the owner of a music shop, you know." Thomas lifts the arm-and-needle from the disc and the overture comes to an abrupt end. "I went to school for a while. This was after everything settled, of course. Traveled around, learned a lot. The mind is a curious thing. Very complex. No one fully understands what makes us tick."

The record slowly spins to a halt. Thomas reaches out, lifts it by the edges, and flips it over. After fitting it back onto the turntable, he lifts the needle over the disc and gently sets it down. Another song begins to play.

It's slower paced, but there is strength in the sound, in the drums, in the melody. He can hear all sorts of instruments harmonizing together, a symphony, and he feels this overwhelming sense of I want to do this how do I start and his fingers are flexing, itching to knock down on ivory keys, and he finds himself staring absently at the record as it revolves endlessly upon the turntable.

"But let's just say," continues Thomas, "that I've got a… well, a contact, of sorts. He has an almost obsessive interest in history. If anyone could help you here, it'd be him." He brings his hand to the side of his mouth and leans toward Wheatley. "But between you and me and the wall, he's a… very paranoid fellow. That's putting it lightly. He picks up on anything. And I do mean anything. If it's something that happened, you can bet he's got a record of it." He glances around the office, among the pictures and the coatrack and the tucked periwinkle curtains. A hoarse chuckle rocks his small frame. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got the place bugged somehow."

"Shouldn't we be worried then?" asks Wheatley, tearing his gaze away from the spinning disc. It's more difficult than it seems. The opening of the song has softened and a man's vibrant voice has now joined the fray, hanging onto the notes and drawing them out, complementing the sawing strings and plucking bass.

"Oh, no, no, not at all." Thomas's hands settle into his blazer's pockets and his posture relaxes, shoulders slouching. "He's a harmless man. Even if he had cause to hurt anyone, he wouldn't seek them out. He keeps to himself. Not exactly the go-getter type."

"But you're saying he could help? I mean, he could find out who I am and what happened to me?" Wheatley doesn't want to get his hopes up because his luck really isn't the greatest considering all of what's happened, but god, if he can somehow figure out what's locked inside of him, he—he doesn't know. He's not sure how he would react. Should react. What if it's something horrible? What if it's something wondrous? What if it's earth-shattering? What if she hates it? What if she loves it? What if what if what if—?

"It's a possibility." Thomas shrugs, craggy forehead furrowed. "No guarantee, mind you. But if you've got any memories from the past in that head of yours, we could put them to good use."

The music is quieter now, smoothing out after a mighty crescendo, and the man is singing heartily in some other language, elegant and lovely and flowing like ribbons, wrapping around and shaping words Wheatley can't understand.

"Well… I suppose it's worth a try, isn't it?" he says. "Not like just standing around doing nothing's going to help. Can't rightly expect everything to fall into place by itself."

Ahhh, tor-é-ador, en gard-e! sings the man. He seems to echo inside of the room, his voice vying for purchase among the strings and woodwinds, Tor-é-ador! Tor-é-ado-o-r!

"People, people, people. Hm." Wheatley runs his hand through his disheveled hair, scratching along his scalp. "You know… What if, hypothetically, just hypothetically mind you, I said that that girl in all those pictures looked familiar. Not oh, look, I remember her, but more of a well I think I might've known her but she doesn't really look the same kind of thing. What would we do then? Go see your—erm, contact?"

Tor-é-ador, he sings, resonating, something Wheatley can feel in his diaphragm, l'amour, l'amour t'attend!

The wrinkles in Thomas's face have softened. His mouth is a thin line and his hazel eyes are locked onto something far beyond the office, as if he can see through the walls and into the streets and even into the wheat fields past the city limits. Wheatley notices that he's straightened himself, arms brought in close, hands still tucked away in pockets.

A chorus has joined the opera singer, chanting Toréador! Toréador! in all matching octaves, spinning words together with trying lungs, and the song seems to burst with power.

"Do you?" asks Thomas.

"What?"

"Do you remember her?"

"Okay, now, look," says Wheatley, "I said this was hypothetical—I did say that, right? Pretty sure I did—but I just wanted to know what would happen if I remembered someth—"

"Do you remember her?"

Wheatley is stunned by sharpness and force in his voice. He stands there, frozen, staring at the stocky man, pinned in place under Thomas's fierce gaze. His palms are slick and the music seems to push into every pore. He's not sure what to do, what to say; his throat feels like it's closing up and he wants to throw himself out the door because he's really done it now, hasn't he?

Tout d'un coup, on fait silence, calls the singer; he's alone once more, commanding the scene, On fait silence… ah! Que se passe-t-il?

"I need to know. Because what you're saying—it isn't possible. It isn't."

Thomas reaches out and snatches one of the photographs on his desk by the turntable. He lightly touches the surface, running a thick finger along the wood frame, and then turns it for Wheatley to see. Lottie, cheery and graying, grins at him from behind the glass.

"You mean to tell me that you knew her? This woman right here? You knew her?"

Wheatley's wringing his hands, helpless, his stomach a souring pit. "I—I don't know. I-I really don't. I'm not sure, I'm sorry, she looks different than what I'm remembering. She's not—um—what I mean to say is she's not… not old. Like that."

"Then here?" Thomas pivots on his dress shoes and swipes a frame from the wall near the coatrack. It's the one Wheatley paused on before; Lottie is young and vibrant and freckled and holding a violin by her chin with a curled arm.

"No," he says, "no, not like that, either. She's… she's young. Little. So very small. A child."

"What?" Everything drains from Thomas's face.

"See what I mean? I can't make sense of it. She looks familiar but she's different. Just—her face, the dots, her eyes, her hair, it's all the same. She's just small. Smaller. A tiny thing. I saw her with me. Me and her and a piano. It's all blurry though, sort of like I forgot my glasses in my dream, but it's there, and it keeps coming back. It was there when I woke up in the fiel—" Shut up, shut up, shut up! What are you doing, you moron?

The heels of Wheatley's palms are pressing against his temples and he's hunched over, trembling, and his head is starting to hurt again, sharp and throbbing and—

"How is that even possible?" Thomas sounds far away, muffled, like Wheatley's being pulled under the world and the water is filling his ears, his throat, his head.

"I don't… I don't know." The floor is starting to move. Is he getting dizzy?

C'est ton tour maintenant! Allons! En garde! Allons! All—

The music halts, punctuated with a piercing scratch. Silence permeates the air, thick and full, overflowing his lungs.

"Wheatley," says Thomas. "Where did you come from?"

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't—

"I want to know," he says. The muscles in his neck are constricting and the tendons pop out with each hard swallow. Words fall out of his mouth in waterfalls. "I wish I did, I really do, then all of this wouldn't be happening, but I don't. I don't remember. I don't. I don't know, I'm sorry, I don't know."

He can hear Thomas shift. His black shoes scuff softly along the tile as he draws close. As the old man pauses, Wheatley can pick up the quiet tinkling of the clerk's spectacles being removed. There's a shuffling; the crimson end of his tie cleaning them, caught in the corner of Wheatley's eye.

A rough hand is placed on his back. It pats twice, short and hearty, anchoring him to reality. It's not unkind.

"Well. It looks like you and I will be paying dear Daniel a visit in the near future, then." Thomas pushes his glasses up his wide nose. "Amnesia is a tricky thing. I want this to be a mistake, but somehow, I don't think it is. And I don't think you ending up here is one, either."

Wheatley rubs wearily at his face, fingers pulling down eyelids under glasses and skin over gaunt cheekbones. It feels like there's a pressure building behind his forehead, swelling and aching, and he wishes it would just disappear like the rest of his memories. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean," he groans.

"Don't think too much on it. Just focus on whatever you can remember. It might be helpful." Thomas flits away to gingerly lift the record off of the turntable. "I'll go out and talk to him this evening. He'll want to know in advance if he's going to have guests."

"What's going to happen when I'm there?" asks Wheatley.

"Questions, I imagine. He loves his questions. He might do some searching. He's got all sorts of things in that shack." Thomas flips the record about between his hands, mouth pursed in thought. "Who knows. He might be able to dig up something."

Hand cradling his head, he glances up at Thomas. "Nothing that's going to hurt, right?"

"Hurt? What?" Thomas shakes his head and slips the record into its sleeve. "No. No, no. Nothing like that. Why would you think it would?"

Wheatley wants to believe Thomas, he really does, but the fear of pain is whispering up his spine. He doesn't want it to hurt. He doesn't want it to be like what She did. He doesn't want it to be like that afternoon in the wheat field, bathing in the aftermath of The Transfer.

He's sure She did everything in her power to make sure it hurt.

"Just…" He gently bites his tongue as he straightens himself, teeth sinking down. He can't talk about Her or the things She did or about those godforsaken halls beneath that shed. He doesn't want to go back. He would rather die than go back. "I'm not fond of pain, really. Not a pleasant thing. Just would rather, you know, avoid it. That's all."

"It'll be fine. Promise you. Don't worry." Thomas pads close to him and folds his arms behind his back. He cranes his neck, jowls stretching, to meet Wheatley's gaze. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you," he says. "I wasn't so short tempered with my clients way back when. She just brings out the worst in me."

Wheatley palms his right temple, hoping the pressure will lessen. "Clients? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, to keep a long story short, I once studied psychology," says Thomas. "Thought I could be of help to people. Try to heal them after all that happened. That stint was short-lived, though. Couldn't keep it up."

Something strikes a chord in Wheatley's heart like hammers knocking on strings and it resonates. "You wanted to heal people?"

"You don't believe me?" He chuckles. It's gravelly, like there's something cinched around his voice. "I don't blame you. Doesn't seem to fit, does it? No, calm down, I'm not angry. I agree. I quit for a reason."

There's that feeling. Close, fluttering, almost palpable, edging just on the outside of his consciousness.

Wheatley leans down and stares at Thomas, his fists clenched, jaw rigid. "You've got to tell me," he says. "About the healing. About what you did. About the—you know. People. Now. Please? If you would? Something's just—going about, ticking away in the back of my head, and—and I think it's about this. It's driving me mad, it really is, and I want to remember, I want to, I really do, but it's like it's… locked away. Buried. So far down."

"Wheatley." Thomas's voice is stern, even, commanding, and he places his hands on Wheatley's shoulders. His grip is grounding. "I'm an old man. I've seen a lot of things in life. I don't know what happened to you or what kind of trauma you suffered to make you lose your memory, but I think you're trying to tackle something you're not ready for."

Wheatley's teeth are clenched and there's tension coiling up in his limbs. He's focused on the desk at the edge of his vision because he can't make himself face the old clerk. "I know, but—"

"This will take time. It's not something you can force. Understand?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then it's settled."

"What?"

"Right now," says Thomas, "all you need is routine. Routine will help. We'll get you to learn some new things to help you along. Refresh you on some music, get you playing. I'll sit down with you at the piano this afternoon."

"All right… Okay, well, if—if you think it'll help, let's routine. Routine away. Ready for routine." Wheatley runs a hand through his mess of hair and a trembling chuckle wells up out of his chest. "You know, I don't think I ever thanked you, did I? For anything. Or the metronome. I don't remember. If I didn't, well, here it is: Thank you. I mean it. I really do. You've been a tremendous help. And I'm not just saying that, either. You've really, really been amazing."

Thomas finally lets go. Stepping backward, he sighs and rests his hands in his blazer pockets once more. "I'll talk to Daniel," he says. "I'm sure he'll want to meet, but I don't know when. He's very finicky. Talks about the moon too much. He'll probably look at his maps and consult the stars to pick a perfect date."

Wheatley glances at the photographs that frame the turntable. "Will you… will you ever tell me about her? About Lottie?"

There is a few moments' pause. Thomas's bushy brows knit and he swallows thickly. "Not yet," he says. "I want to see if there's a connection first. I'll gladly tell you about my studies in psychology, though. It's not a very long story, but you wanted to hear, and it's been a while since I've visited those memories."

"After sorting, though? Or could it be sooner? I'd—sorry, I'd just really like to know. Don't mean to sound bossy or anything. If it did. I didn't mean that way. Sorry."

"Well, if you want," says Thomas, padding toward the office door, "I could tell you while you finish up the stack. I have some paperwork to fill out, anyhow. Ordering reeds. Strings. Tedious stuff."

Wheatley starts to follow, but the image of Chell surfaces in the forefront of his mind. "Oh! Sorry, just a second—I've got a quick question, if you don't mind?"

Thomas leans against the doorjamb. "What is it?"

"I want to… thank someone. A friend." He's starting to grin as he thinks of her and he doesn't even care that his pulse is stirring up again. "She's been amazing as well, but I've… well, not been so amazing. Long story. But I'd like to, you know, make it up to her. Say I'm sorry, but not really say it because it's not enough. I don't know how to go about it or… what to do for her. And let's be honest: I'm not exactly the best person in the world to go thinking up grand things."

"I wouldn't sell yourself short." The old clerk scratches along his scalp as if in thought. Gray hair bunches and twists where his fingers pull. "But you know, I might have a few ideas rolling about."

Elation pushes between Wheatley's lungs. Maybe he can finally thank her properly for all she's done. "Brilliant! What kinds of ideas? What are they?"

Thomas's mouth pulls at the corners in a cheeky grin. "Wheatley, how comfortable do you think you'd be playing piano for, let's say, an audience?"