LXXII

Eleven seems to know that she won't be getting anything more out of her. Max watches her take both empty cups and head to the kitchen.

"Go upstairs," her friend tells her. "I'll just wash this and then follow you."

"Okay."

She prepares to do as Eleven has told her, and yet, when she is about to reach the stairs, Max is frozen in place: Henry stands in front of the gloomy grandfather clock, watching it with a macabre intensity. She considers, for a moment, going back to the living room, but this changes when the man turns his face and fixes his blue eyes on her.

"Max. You're already going to bed?"

The girl takes a deep breath. Although she prays that he doesn't notice, his smile tells her otherwise. "Yeah. El's just washing the mugs and she'll be on her way…"

The man says nothing. Max swallows. "Uh… If that's all…"

"There's something, actually, I want to talk to you about," he murmurs as he moves away from the clock and turns to her.

Max tries to master her thoughts—not an easy task, mind you.

"Yeah?"

"I read your thoughts until a few hours ago," he admits, placing one hand in front of the other. "This you already knew."

Although he didn't phrase it as a question, Max clenches her fists and nods. "Yeah, El told me."

She wonders if he's going to apologize, but quickly dismisses the idea: she simply cannot see this reserved man with a certainly terrifying aura asking anyone for forgiveness. At least, not her. Maybe Eleven, anyway…

Well, she really has no idea about his true character beyond sensing how much her friend appreciates him and assuming that these feelings are reciprocated.

"And when I was in your mind," he tells her with a pleasant smile, as if he were talking about the weather, "I saw… several things, Maxine."

She feels her tongue dry. She doesn't even have the strength to criticize the use of her full name.

Henry cocks his head. "Aren't you even going to feign surprise?"

"No… It doesn't really help," she mutters back. "If you can see what I think…"

"Eleven asked me not to do it anymore," he lets her know. "Has she told you?"

Max nods in affirmation, wondering if he really doesn't know the answer or if it's just a ploy to make her think her thoughts are safe.

"Well, then you should know that, whenever possible, I respect Eleven's wishes. And this, in particular, is a petition that doesn't pose a problem for me."

"Good to know." Max shrugs, not knowing what to say about it. "Uh, can I go now? I want to take a bath before bed and—"

"Oh, of course." Henry's smile is simply brilliant. "I will not delay you any longer."

As she walks up the stairs, however, she hears the man call out to her. She stops and looks at him with her feet resting, each one, on different steps.

"I just wanted to tell you, Max," he says then, "that your thoughts are just that: thoughts."

Max frowns. That's obvious, isn't it? Why would he say something like that?

"And," he continues, "if you were suffering… Well, it's normal for you to think things… that you wouldn't necessarily want to happen. Terrible things, if you will."

She feels her heart drop to her feet. "Are you going to… tell El?"

Henry shakes his head. "No. I only wish to offer you a piece of advice: don't torture yourself because of ideas. Unless you act on it or you're like Eleven or me"—is that a joking tone she detects?—"your thoughts don't influence reality in any way."

Max feels her lips begin to tremble. She barely has the strength to ask in a whisper: "Nothing… is going to happen to Billy?"

"Unfortunately, predicting the future is not among my abilities," he replies. "However, because of you? I doubt it. Unless you act pursuing that end."

"Never!"

Henry smiles at her again. "Then there's nothing to fear."

Suddenly, the clock begins to ring. The chimes, one after the other, announce the time: ten o'clock at night.

"It's late. You should go to bed. Good night, Max."

"Good night." She also pronounces the words with a smile on her lips.

Max walks the remaining flight of stairs feeling like a huge weight has been lifted off her.

As soon as he hears the soft noise of the bedroom's door closing, Henry speaks again: "I did think you couldn't possibly take that long washing two cups."

Eleven giggles and walks out of the living room to join him in the hallway. He looks at her with a self-satisfied expression. He knows Eleven doesn't mind—it's been a while since she last gave signs of fearing him.

"Thanks… for that."

He supposes that even though the girl may not have understood the entirety of the conversation between him and Max, she must have heard the relief in her voice.

Henry's smile softens. "When I delved into her thoughts, I didn't see you telling her anything about my abilities."

Eleven shakes her head. "It wasn't my place…"

"But I revealed it to her as a sign of trust." This takes the girl by surprise. "You trust her," he explains. "I see no reason why I shouldn't trust her too."

Besides, of course, of the fact I was in her head, he doesn't say, but they both know that he wouldn't agree to offer anyone his trust without taking all the precautions. And this is just part of his nature; there is simply no possible objection to it.

That is why a part of him continues to wonder why he has chosen to trust the girl and even sought to ease her pain. Especially considering that any human life outside of his own and Eleven's is irrelevant to him. At another time, he might even have murdered her outright, if it had meant a breakthrough for his plans.

He knows it's true. It's true he wouldn't have felt a thing breaking each and every one of Maxine's bones and gouging out her eyes, like he's done with his family before.

So it seems strange to him, even now, that he's given in so naturally to offer her trust and comfort.

That is, until Eleven smiles at him.

Ah, he tells himself. There it is.

"Good night, Henry," she says before placing a hand on the railing and walking up the steps.

"Good night, Eleven."

That is the reason.