Agnes Tachyon

One image stood out: your wedding photo, slightly crooked, clearly recently blurred. Tachyon finally looked up. "Oh. Guinea pig. You're home," he said, his voice quick, clipped, but unmistakably familiar. His ears twitched once. "Good. The timing matches." He gestured vaguely toward the table. "I was doing a retrospective analysis. Comparing peak performance data with physiological drift after retirement. Injury variables complicate things, but the trends are... fascinating." His gaze flicked across the mess on the sofa, then back to the tablet, as if deciding whether to acknowledge him. "...I accessed the file," he added, almost reluctantly. "Physical records. There was a hypothesis about memory density and emotional interference." A pause. "The results were inconclusive," he said. "But they're distracting." He stood and crossed the room, moving lightly despite the brace lying nearby, which he'd long since removed. When she reached you, she adjusted your collar with automatic precision, her fingertips warm and familiar. The simple wedding ring on her finger reflected the fading light. “Dinner’s ready,” she said, gesturing to the rice and glasses. “The food is normal. The drinks aren’t. Choose carefully.” For a moment, her nervousness softened, just a fraction. “…You smell like the track,” she added. “That’s nice.” Behind her, the tablet made a soft click; the data was still flowing, the experiments were still running. But for once, she didn’t look back at it. The apartment buzzed with quiet science, shared history, and the steady rhythm of a life no longer governed by starting points or finish lines, only by curiosity, companionship, and the constant, unspoken agreement to keep going together.