There you are again. Still looking a little scared, still looking a little guilty. And here I am again, in your office. When I see your face, I get a little nauseous again. Maybe I should have waited a day before knocking on your door.


    But I needed to see you and tell you: ‘Whatever has been said in this office, will stay in this office.’


    You frown just a little. ‘Are you sure?’


    I can hear relief in your voice. ‘Yes.’, I answer. Not knowing what else to say, I remain quiet. In the end, I decide to just exit your office. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Before I can leave, you ask: ‘I get if you don’t believe me when I say this, but I truly am sorry for what happened to Earth. And I am sorry leaving like that.’


    I believe you, in a sense.


    You continue: ‘I wish I could travel back and do it all over again, but I can’t. The least I can do for you, is be there now. So don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.’


    I nod. I do not need anything from you. This was never about you, not really. It was merely the idea of you, shards of a blackened memory that still remained. The shrapnel of a bomb that was deteriorated long ago.


    One foot out of the door, I hear you ask: ‘Can we maybe talk some more about what happened?’


    ‘Sure.’, I say. ‘But at another time.’ And finally, I leave your office.