The cold knot in Mabel's stomach tightened into a resolve as hard as stone. She would not become ash.
She didn't retreat to the barren room. Instead, she placed the pot on the cheap table with a definitive thud that echoed in the empty space. The sound made Nathaniel flinch.
"Okay," Mabel said, her voice no longer trembling. It was clear, flat, and carried the finality of a slamming door. "It's ash. So what do we do now?"
Nathaniel opened his eyes, the gold in them dull with more than weariness. It was the sheen of an old, festering shame. "We do nothing. It's done. There's no 'we' in failure, Mabel. It's a solo activity."
"We're not doing nothing," she stated. She marched into the kitchen, the one plate, one bowl, and one mug a testament to his solitary life. She found a relatively clean dish towel, ran it under the tap, and returned to the living room. She began to wipe the thick layer of dust from the table, creating a clean circle around the pot of ash.
Nathaniel watched her as if she were performing an arcane ritual. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning."
"Why?"
"Because I live here now. And I'm not living in a tomb."
The simplicity of her statement hung in the air. It wasn't a request. It was a declaration of war against the void he had cultivated. He sighed, the sound like the rustling of dead leaves, and stood up. "Fine. But you're going about it the hard way."
He walked over to one of the windows. He didn't open them. He simply placed his palm flat against the grimy glass.
"What are you doing?" Mabel asked, the towel still in her hand.
"The easy way."
He closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Mabel felt it—a subtle, gravitational shift, as if the apartment had taken a deep, silent breath. The dust on the floor didn't swirl; it simply… vanished. Not a particle remained. The grime on the windows evaporated, leaving the glass perfectly transparent. The stale, dead air was replaced by a neutral, clean stillness. It was as if the very concept of filth had been gently persuaded to leave.
The apartment was now spotless. And even more soulless than before.
Nathaniel removed his hand from the glass, looking paler than usual. "There. Clean."
Mabel stared, her dish towel suddenly useless. This wasn't magic as she understood it. It wasn't a flashy spell. It was a fundamental editing of reality, achieved with less effort than it took most people to wash a dish. The sheer, terrifying scale of his passive power left her breathless.
"You can just… do that?" she whispered.
"Scattering it requires intention. Intention requires energy. Letting it sit was... metabolically cheaper." He sank back onto the sofa, as if the minor exertion of explaining had cost him dearly. "It's all a matter of spiritual economy."
He was looking at the pot of ash again. A tense silence filled the newly cleaned space.
"Can you do that for the phoenix?" Mabel asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "Can you just… persuade it back?"
Nathaniel's head snapped toward her, his eyes flashing with a sudden, raw anger that was so much more alive than his apathy. "No," he bit out, the word sharp and final. "That's not how it works. You can't cheat life back into existence. That's a violation of the deepest covenants. All you can do is tend the flame. I didn't. I was… distracted."
"By what?" Mabel pressed, emboldened by his anger. Anger was something she could work with. It was better than nothing.
He looked away, toward the now-pristine window. "By the sheer, grinding tedium of eternity. By the pointlessness of keeping a fire burning for a world that prefers the cold. By the memory of…" He trailed off, shutting down again. "It doesn't matter. The point is, it's gone. Some things, once lost, stay lost."
He was hiding again. Retreating. Mabel felt the moment slipping away. She had to act.
"Okay," she said again, her tone shifting from judge to field commander. She walked over to her suitcase, unzipped it, and took out the one personal item she had insisted on bringing: a small, framed photograph of her and her mother, Ruan, both of them laughing, their heads pressed together. She walked to the empty mantelpiece above the fake fireplace and placed the photo squarely in the center.
The effect was jarring. The joy and life in the picture were an accusation against the sterile emptiness of the room.
Nathaniel stared at it as if it were a holy relic in a profane temple. A complex spasm of pain crossed his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not hiding my mother," Mabel said, meeting his gaze. "And you're not hiding your failure anymore." She pointed at the pot. "That stays there. On the table. Where we can both see it."