XV

Once he has returned to the house, Henry finds Eleven sitting on the dust-covered wooden floor, staring at the old clock he used to practice his skills on. The smile comes naturally to him—after being forced to deal with the father he wished he would have never seen again (considering he hadn't been able to end his life prior), sitting next to Eleven on the floor—even if their clothes get dirty—is a well-deserved rest.

"Hey," he greets her.

"Hi…" she replies after a brief glance to his face.

"I see you have found my clock." Eleven nods without taking her eyes off the artifact. "What do you think of it?"

"It's… scary."

Henry chuckles at her answer.

"Yes, I suppose it is, in a way." Now, he's looking at it too. "For me, it represented the straitjacket I so despise."

Another nod from Eleven.

"It must have been… hard. For you," she clarifies.

"Yes, terribly so."

"We had… schedules for everything," Eleven mutters. "Getting up, eating, training… Even playing."

"And playing, actually, was also training," Henry finishes. "It also forced you to be productive."

"Productive…?" She looks at him.

"Something useful," he explains, returning her gaze. "Something productive is something useful. In this case, playing was productive because it forced you to develop your skills, even if it wasn't training in a strict sense. Do you remember how, day after day, you would try to fit the red chip in one of the numbered boxes?" She nods. "Were you having fun then?"

Eleven frowns: "… No."

"How did it make you feel?"

"… Upset."

"Upset," Henry repeats. "Why?"

"Because… everyone could do it but… not me…"

"And why was that so important?"

"Because… Because I was disappointing Papa."

Henry raises his eyebrows.

"Were you? Like when you failed during training?"

Eleven keeps quiet and looks at the clock once again.

"The fact Papa wasn't supervising your playing—which, actually, I assure you he did, just while hiding—doesn't mean it wasn't training. What's more: it wasn't playing, at all."

The girl clenches her fists. Henry notices, of course.

"Hey," he calls softly as he places his left hand on her right, her gleaming brown eyes staring up at him. "We have left that life behind.

"Now it's just you and me. You and me, with no one getting in our way. How does that sound?"

Eleven thinks about it—because she's incapable of lying, something Henry admires, quite frankly—and finally replies: "Sounds good."

#

Half an hour later, Henry finds the fortune—which is by no means small, contrary to what he has been led to believe—just where his father has told him it would be. Although he has never been materialistic, knowing for a fact both Eleven's and his own comfort is guaranteed puts a smile on his face.

Yes—it's so, so much more money than he expected. Enough to cover both their needs for an indefinite period of time.

At least until she can fend for herself, he thinks.

Not that he's planning to ever leave her alone. No, not at all.

It's just that he doesn't expect her to depend on him forever.