Part 2 — The House That Waited
David slowly reached for the door.
His fingers settled around the familiar handle, but for several moments, he couldn't bring himself to turn it.
He had imagined returning home countless times during his months at the Academy. Sometimes, during the quieter evenings in Room B-17, he would find himself thinking about the house and the life he had left behind. He remembered the comfortable furniture, the familiar rooms, and the small sounds that had once filled the evenings.
He had wondered whether coming home would make things easier.
Now, standing on the porch with his travel bag resting against his shoulder, he wasn't so sure.
David finally turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The hinges gave a faint creak.
He stepped inside.
The familiar scent of the house greeted him immediately. There was the subtle smell of polished wood, the faint trace of old books, and something else he couldn't quite identify. It was a scent he had known for most of his life, one he had never paid much attention to until he was standing there after so many months away.
He closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked into place.
For a moment, David remained in the entrance, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps approaching from the kitchen.
No familiar voice calling to ask whether he was hungry.
No sound of his father turning a page in the living room.
The house was exactly as he remembered it.
And that was what made returning so difficult.
David adjusted the strap of his bag and walked farther inside.
Sunlight entered through the windows, casting long rectangles of light across the wooden floor. Dust drifted lazily through the bright patches, disturbed by the movement of air as he passed.
The furniture remained where it had always been. The small table near the entrance still held the decorative bowl his mother had insisted belonged there, despite his father's repeated suggestions that it served no practical purpose.
David remembered one particular evening when Dorian had dropped his keys into it.
Lyra had looked at him from the kitchen.
"That's not what it's for."
His father had glanced at the bowl, then back at her.
"It's a bowl."
"It's decorative."
"Then why is it shaped like something meant to hold things?"
David had laughed so hard that evening that his mother had eventually threatened to move the bowl somewhere neither of them could reach.
A faint smile touched his lips.
He glanced toward the table.
The bowl was still there.
Empty.
David continued into the living room.
It was the largest room in the house, with broad windows overlooking the front garden and a stone fireplace built into the far wall. Two couches faced a low wooden table, while several shelves held books, old photographs, and small keepsakes his parents had collected during their travels.
Near the fireplace stood his father's favorite chair.
The dark leather had softened with age, particularly along the armrests where Dorian had rested his hands during countless evenings. A small wooden stand sat beside it, positioned close enough to hold a drink or an open book.
David's eyes lingered on the chair.
He could remember his father sitting there after returning from an expedition, sometimes reading through reports and sometimes simply enjoying the quiet.
When David was younger, he would often sit on the floor nearby, asking questions about the places his parents had visited.
Dorian had always tried to answer.
Even when the questions continued long after David was supposed to be asleep.
David looked away from the chair and approached the fireplace.
Above it stretched a wide wooden mantel.
Several small decorations rested along its surface, but one object immediately caught his attention.
A framed photograph of his parents.
David stopped.
He remembered the photograph.
It had been taken several years before their disappearance, during one of the rare stretches when both Lyra and Dorian had been home for more than a few weeks.
His father stood beside his mother, one arm resting comfortably around her shoulders.
Lyra was smiling toward the camera, her expression warm and relaxed.
Dorian wore the slightly amused look he often had whenever someone insisted on taking his picture.
David remembered being the one holding the camera.
His father had complained that they had already taken enough photographs.
His mother had disagreed.
"Just one more, Dorian."
"Lyra, you've said that four times."
"And I'll probably say it again if you keep making that face."
"What face?"
"The one you're making right now."
David remembered laughing from behind the camera.
"Just smile, Dad."
His father had looked directly at him.
"I am smiling."
"No, you're not."
Lyra had leaned closer to Dorian, laughing.
And David had taken the picture.
He remembered how pleased his mother had been with it.
She had placed it on the mantel that same evening.
David reached forward and carefully lifted the frame.
The glass was cool beneath his fingers.
He studied their faces.
He had spent so much time wondering where they were, whether they were alive, and what had happened during their final mission to Verdalis.
Sometimes he worried that the longer they were gone, the more difficult it would become to remember the smallest details about them.
The sound of his mother's laughter.
The way his father would raise an eyebrow when David asked a particularly ridiculous question.
The comfortable feeling of knowing they were somewhere nearby.
But looking at the photograph brought those memories back with surprising clarity.
"Hey, Mom. Dad."
His voice sounded unusually loud in the quiet room.
David smiled faintly.
"I'm home."
He stood there for a while, holding the photograph.
Then he carefully returned it to its place on the mantel.
His gaze moved toward the empty space above the fireplace.
He had brought something that belonged there now.
David lowered his travel bag to the floor and opened it.
He moved aside several carefully folded pieces of clothing until his fingers found a long, securely wrapped object.
The tournament katana.
He drew it out slowly, removing the protective covering to reveal the weapon he had earned during the Academy's arena competition.
The blade remained within its sheath, its polished fittings catching the sunlight.
David held it in both hands.
He remembered standing inside the enormous arena beneath the watchful eyes of the Academy instructors, the Twelve Families, and thousands of spectators.
He remembered the pressure of those battles.
The exhaustion.
The determination to keep fighting when his body begged him to stop.
He had entered the tournament uncertain how far he could go.
By the time it ended, he had learned more about himself than he had expected.
Yet when he thought back on those days, it wasn't only the fighting he remembered.
He remembered Gamma Squad watching from the stands.
June shouting advice that was almost certainly more distracting than helpful.
Lucian studying every movement with intense concentration.
Mira quietly observing his opponents.
Castiel making comments that somehow managed to sound encouraging and insulting at the same time.
And Nyra.
He remembered searching for her face among the others after a difficult match.
The relief he had felt when he found her watching him.
The smile she had given him.
David lowered his eyes to the katana.
For a moment, he could almost hear the roar of the crowd again.
Then the memory faded, leaving only the quiet living room.
He glanced toward the wall above the mantel.
His father had once used that space to display a decorative weapon brought back from an expedition. The mounting brackets remained, although the old weapon had been removed years earlier.
David stepped closer and carefully placed the sheathed katana across them.
He adjusted its position until it rested securely above the fireplace.
Then he stepped back.
The weapon looked strangely appropriate there.
A piece of his life at the Academy, now resting in the home where that journey had begun.
David looked at his parents' photograph.
"I think Dad would've liked that."
He imagined Dorian examining the weapon, asking about its balance and construction before demanding to hear the entire story of how David had earned it.
His mother would probably have been more interested in whether he'd been injured.
David smiled at the thought.
He turned back toward his bag.
The next item required more care.
He lifted out a long protective case containing the rapier.
For a moment, he held it across his arms, feeling its familiar weight.
The sight of the case brought back memories he wasn't ready to examine too closely.
He ran his hand along its surface before carrying it to the side of the fireplace.
There, he placed it carefully against the stonework, making certain it stood securely and wouldn't slip.
The katana above the mantel.
The rapier beside the fireplace.
Two weapons that carried memories of a life he could never have imagined when he first left this house.
David returned to his bag.
This time, he reached deeper inside, carefully moving aside the remaining belongings.
His fingers brushed against something soft.
He stopped.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Then he gently lifted out a small stuffed fox.
Its fur was soft beneath his hands, and its bright eyes stared back at him with the same cheerful expression it had worn when Nyra first won it.
David sat down on the edge of the nearby couch.
He held the fox in his lap.
He remembered how Nyra had won it for him at the arcade, the playful smile she'd given him when she placed it in his hands.
It was such a small gift, something he might once have considered ordinary. But now it meant more to him than almost anything else he owned. It was a reminder of her kindness, her laughter, and a time when they had both believed there would be countless more moments together.
His thumb moved gently across the fox's soft fur.
"I miss you, Nyra," he whispered.
He stood and approached the fireplace, carefully placing the fox on the mantel beside his parents' photograph.
For a moment, he simply looked at it, remembering her smile.
David returned to his bag.
There was one more memory he wanted to place on the mantel.
He found the photo booth pictures tucked safely among his belongings.
The small strip of photographs had been protected carefully during the journey home.
David unfolded it.
Six familiar faces looked back at him.
Gamma Squad.
All of them.
In the first picture, everyone had been trying to fit inside the booth's limited frame.
June had squeezed himself into the front, wearing an exaggerated grin.
Lucian looked as though he was trying to convince everyone to behave.
Mira sat quietly beside him, her expression composed despite the obvious chaos.
Castiel had leaned into the picture with an amused smile.
Nyra stood close to David.
And David himself looked happier than he remembered feeling in a long time.
He moved to the next picture.
June had apparently said something just before the camera activated.
Lucian was laughing.
Mira's usual composure had slipped into a genuine smile.
Castiel looked thoroughly pleased with himself.
Nyra had turned slightly toward David, laughing at whatever had happened.
David remembered that moment.
He had been looking at her instead of the camera.
He hadn't realized it until they received the pictures.
June had noticed immediately.
And naturally, he hadn't let David forget it.
David smiled faintly at the memory.
Then he looked at the final picture.
Everyone had managed to face the camera.
Six friends.
Shoulders pressed together.
Smiling.
For a long time, David studied their faces.
Lucian.
June.
Mira.
Castiel.
Nyra.
His eyes lingered on her.
He traced the edge of the photograph with his thumb, careful not to touch her face.
There were so many things he wished he'd said.
So many moments he wished he'd held on to a little longer.
He remembered the way she listened when he spoke.
The quiet confidence she carried into dangerous situations.
The kindness she showed others, even when she was exhausted herself.
And the way her smile sometimes made the rest of the world seem less complicated.
David swallowed.
"I miss you, Nyra."
The words were barely louder than a whisper.
He stood quietly for a while before turning toward the photograph of his parents.
He picked up their frame once more, looking between their faces and the pictures of Gamma Squad.
"You would've liked them."
David smiled faintly.
"All of them."
He glanced toward the photo booth strip.
"Lucian's probably the most responsible one. He's always looking out for everyone."
His eyes moved toward June.
"June would've driven you crazy, Dad. He never stops talking, and half the things he says are ridiculous."
David let out a quiet laugh.
"But he's a good friend. One of the best."
He looked toward Mira.
"Mira doesn't say much. She's kind of like you sometimes, Mom. She notices things other people miss."
His gaze moved toward Castiel.
"And Castiel..."
David shook his head with a small smile.
"You would've liked him, Dad. Although the two of you probably would've spent most of your time arguing just to see who could annoy the other more."
He paused.
"He's my best friend."
The words felt important.
David looked back at his parents.
"He said he's going to visit this summer. I think you'd really like having him around."
Then his eyes returned to Nyra.
His expression softened.
"And her name was Nyra."
For several moments, he couldn't continue.
He remembered her standing beside him in the photo booth.
The warmth of her shoulder against his.
The sound of her laughter.
The way she had looked at him.
"Mom," he said quietly, "you would've loved her."
His voice caught slightly.
"She was kind. Brave. Sometimes stubborn."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Really stubborn, actually."
He looked down.
"She always knew when something was bothering me. Even when I tried to pretend everything was fine."
David took a slow breath.
"I wish you could've met her."
The room remained silent.
He looked once more at the picture of his parents.
"When I left for the Academy, I didn't know what was going to happen. I didn't know anyone there, and I wasn't sure I'd fit in."
His eyes moved across the photographs.
"But I found people who cared about me."
He swallowed.
"People who stood beside me when things got bad. People who fought for me, laughed with me, and helped me when I couldn't do everything on my own."
David gently placed the photo booth pictures beside his parents' frame.
"I'm not alone, Mom. Dad."
He adjusted the pictures so that all six faces remained visible.
"I still have family. People who care about me. People who'll be there when I need them."
His gaze lingered on the two photographs standing together.
"I just wish you could've known them."
For a long moment, David remained before the mantel.
His parents' smiling faces stood beside the friends who had changed his life.
The stuffed fox sat nearby.
Above them rested the tournament katana.
For the first time since entering the house, the living room felt a little less empty.
David returned to his bag.
As he moved the remaining belongings aside, he noticed a carefully folded letter.
He stopped.
Nyra's letter.
The one addressed to her father.
Captain Callum Valecrest.
David carefully lifted it from the bag.
He recognized her handwriting immediately.
For a moment, he simply stared at the words written across the outside.
He wondered how many times Nyra had thought about her father while they were away.
How often she had imagined returning home and telling him everything that had happened.
She had loved her father deeply.
David knew that.
He remembered the way her expression softened whenever she spoke about him.
The pride in her voice when she mentioned his service.
And the quiet affection that always accompanied his name.
David turned the letter over in his hands.
He could have opened it then.
Part of him wanted to.
He wanted to hear her words again, even if they were only written on paper.
But he hesitated.
The letter hadn't been written for him.
It had been written for her father.
And somehow, opening it felt like crossing a boundary he wasn't certain he had the right to cross.
David looked toward the photographs.
Then he carefully placed the letter on the mantel beside them.
He stood there for another moment.
"Not yet," he whispered.
He stepped away from the fireplace and picked up his travel bag.
There were still rooms he hadn't visited.
David moved through the hallway toward the kitchen.
The familiar doorway brought back memories before he even stepped inside.
He remembered sitting at the kitchen table while his mother prepared breakfast.
Lyra would sometimes hum quietly while she worked, especially on mornings when both she and Dorian were home.
His father would enter a few minutes later, usually carrying a communicator or some report he had been reading.
His mother would immediately tell him to put it away.
"Breakfast first, Dorian."
"I was only checking something."
"You were checking it yesterday."
"That's because it wasn't finished yesterday."
"And it still won't be finished after breakfast if you keep arguing with me."
David remembered laughing while his father surrendered the communicator with an exaggerated sigh.
Those mornings had seemed ordinary.
At the time, he'd never imagined how much he would miss them.
He ran his fingers lightly along the edge of the kitchen table.
There was a small mark near one corner.
He remembered making it when he was younger, accidentally dropping something heavy onto the wood.
He had tried to hide it.
His father had noticed almost immediately.
Dorian hadn't been angry.
Instead, he had crouched beside David and asked whether he'd been hurt.
Only after making certain he was all right had he examined the damage.
"Well," his father had said, "I suppose that gives the table some character."
His mother had disagreed.
David smiled at the memory.
He continued through the house.
In the hallway, several framed pictures still hung along the wall.
Some showed landscapes from worlds his parents had visited.
Others were family photographs taken during holidays and birthdays.
David paused before one showing himself as a child, standing between Lyra and Dorian.
He couldn't have been older than eight.
His father had one hand resting on his shoulder.
His mother was smiling down at him.
David remembered very little about the day the picture had been taken.
But he remembered feeling happy.
He moved farther down the hallway.
When he reached his parents' bedroom, he stopped outside the door.
It was closed.
He rested his hand against the wood.
For a moment, he remembered being younger, standing outside this same room after waking from a nightmare.
His mother would always seem to know when something was wrong.
Sometimes she would open the door before he even knocked.
"David? What's the matter?"
He remembered the comfort of her voice.
The way she would kneel in front of him and listen patiently while he tried to explain whatever had frightened him.
And his father, still half-asleep, would eventually appear behind her.
"Another monster under the bed?"
David had nodded once.
Dorian had looked toward Lyra with exaggerated seriousness.
"Well, we can't have that."
He had followed David back to his bedroom and performed a thorough inspection beneath the bed, inside the closet, and behind the curtains.
When he finished, he had announced that the room was completely secure.
David remembered believing him.
He slowly removed his hand from the door.
He didn't open it.
Not today.
Instead, he continued toward the room at the end of the hallway.
His bedroom.
David stopped in the doorway.
The room looked almost exactly as he had left it.
His bed stood against the wall, neatly made. The desk near the window remained clear except for a few old notebooks and small objects he'd left behind.
The shelves still held books he'd collected over the years.
Sunlight entered through the curtains, illuminating the familiar furniture.
David stepped inside.
He placed his travel bag on the bed.
For a moment, he simply looked around.
This room had once been his entire world.
He had spent countless evenings sitting at the desk, reading about distant planets and imagining what it would be like to explore them.
He had lain awake wondering whether he would ever learn what happened to his parents.
And he had opened a book that changed everything.
David's eyes moved toward the nightstand.
He remembered the day Commander Hale Varic had delivered his parents' belongings.
The letter.
The gift.
And the ancient book.
David sat on the edge of the bed.
He remembered holding the book for the first time, examining its worn cover and the strange sense that there was something unusual about it.
At first, he had believed it was simply another relic his parents had discovered during their travels.
Something old.
Something valuable.
Something they had wanted him to keep.
Then he had opened it.
He remembered reading through its pages, trying to understand the stories and accounts written within.
And eventually, he had reached the final page.
His name had appeared there.
David Wyn.
He remembered staring at those words.
The confusion.
The disbelief.
And then the moment everything changed.
The System had awakened.
At the time, he hadn't understood what was happening.
He hadn't known what the System was, why it had chosen him, or what its existence would mean for his future.
He certainly hadn't known about the ancient presence that would eventually reveal itself to him.
I AM.
David lowered his gaze.
He remembered the first time he had encountered that presence.
The strange sense of standing before something unimaginably old.
Something that seemed to understand far more about him than he understood about himself.
For months, he had searched for answers.
He had believed that if he became strong enough, if he learned enough, he might eventually understand why all of this had happened.
Now he knew things he sometimes wished he didn't.
He remembered the rooftop.
The Blood Moon.
The truth about the world that had existed before time was turned back.
The lives that had been lost.
And the second chance that had brought him here.
David looked toward the window.
He thought about Nyra.
Even knowing everything he now knew, he couldn't understand why she had been taken from him.
Why he had been given another chance only to lose her again.
He sat quietly for several minutes.
Then he reached into his travel bag.
His fingers found the familiar cover.
He carefully withdrew the book.
The book felt just as it had when he'd first held it.
Its worn surface carried the marks of an age he couldn't begin to comprehend.
David studied it for a moment.
So much had begun with this book.
The System.
His abilities.
The strange path that had led him through the Academy and across distant worlds.
And the unanswered questions that still surrounded his parents' disappearance.
He ran his hand across the cover.
"You really changed everything," he murmured.
The book offered no answer.
David hadn't expected one.
He stood and placed it on his nightstand.
For a moment, he looked at it resting there.
It was almost exactly where his journey had begun.
Yet the person standing beside the bed was no longer the same boy who had first opened it.
He had fought battles.
Seen worlds beyond Earth.
Made friends he would trust with his life.
And learned how deeply losing someone could hurt.
David looked around his bedroom once more.
Then he stepped into the hallway.
He left the door open behind him.
By the time he returned to the kitchen, the afternoon sunlight had shifted across the windows.
He wasn't particularly hungry.
He hadn't eaten much that morning, but the thought of preparing a meal held little appeal.
Instead, he decided to make tea.
He opened one of the upper cabinets and found the familiar collection of cups his mother had kept there.
For a moment, he studied them.
Some were plain.
Others carried designs from different places his parents had visited.
He selected one he'd used often before leaving for the Academy.
Then he filled the kettle and set it to heat.
While he waited, he leaned against the counter.
The kitchen was quiet except for the faint sound of the kettle.
David remembered his mother preparing tea during the evenings when she wanted to relax.
Sometimes she would make a cup for his father as well, carrying both into the living room before settling onto the couch beside him.
He remembered watching them talk.
Not always about important things.
Sometimes they discussed work.
Sometimes they argued over what to have for dinner the following evening.
And sometimes they simply sat together, enjoying the quiet.
David had never understood how valuable those ordinary moments were.
Not until they were gone.
The kettle signaled that the water was ready.
He poured it carefully into the cup and added the tea.
A gentle aroma rose with the steam.
David waited while it steeped, watching the color deepen.
Then he carried the cup into the living room.
The afternoon light had softened, leaving warm shadows along the walls.
He approached the fireplace.
His eyes moved toward the mantel.
The katana rested above it.
The rapier's case stood beside the stonework.
His parents' photograph sat beside the pictures of Gamma Squad.
The stuffed fox remained nearby.
And Nyra's letter lay where he had placed it.
David looked at the arrangement for several moments.
The living room had changed.
Not dramatically.
The furniture remained the same.
The shelves were still filled with the same books.
The familiar decorations hadn't moved.
But the things he had brought home now occupied places among the memories of his childhood.
It felt as though two parts of his life had finally met.
David turned toward his father's chair.
He stood beside it for a moment, remembering the countless evenings Dorian had spent sitting there.
He could almost picture him leaning back with a book in one hand and a cup of tea resting beside him.
Sometimes, when David was younger, his father would let him climb into the chair beside him.
They would sit together while Dorian told stories about his travels.
David remembered listening with complete fascination.
The distant planets.
The unfamiliar skies.
The strange creatures and ancient ruins.
His father had always made the universe sound enormous and full of possibilities.
David lowered himself into the chair.
The leather shifted beneath his weight.
It was comfortable.
Familiar.
And somehow different from what he remembered.
He rested his arms along the worn armrests.
For a moment, he imagined his father's hands resting in the same places.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Guess I finally grew into it, Dad."
He placed the cup of tea on the small stand beside the chair.
Then, after a moment, he picked it up again.
He brought it toward his lips and took a cautious sip.
The tea was still too hot.
David pulled the cup away almost immediately, exhaling softly as the heat touched his tongue.
"Definitely should've waited."
He placed the cup back on the stand.
A thin curl of steam continued rising from its surface.
David leaned back in the chair.
For a little while, he simply sat there.
The house was quiet.
Outside, a breeze moved through the trees, carrying the faint rustle of leaves through the partially open window.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird called.
David listened.
He remembered evenings when he had sat in this room with both of his parents, feeling completely safe.
He wondered whether they had ever imagined how much their absence would change his life.
Whether they knew how often he still thought about them.
He looked toward their photograph.
Then his gaze shifted to the pictures beside it.
Gamma Squad.
His friends.
The people who had stood beside him when he had needed them most.
His eyes moved to Nyra.
And then to the letter.
David sat forward slightly.
He stared at it.
The letter had remained on the mantel since he placed it there earlier.
He had tried not to think about opening it.
But now, sitting in the quiet living room, he found himself looking at it again.
He remembered the way Nyra spoke about her father.
The affection in her voice.
The quiet pride she carried whenever she mentioned him.
David wondered what she had wanted to tell Captain Callum Valecrest.
Had she written about the Academy?
About Gamma Squad?
About the places they had visited?
Had she described the people she'd met?
Had she mentioned him?
David lowered his gaze.
He knew the letter wasn't addressed to him.
He knew that whatever Nyra had written belonged, first and foremost, to her father.
But it was also something she had left behind.
Something that carried her thoughts and feelings in her own words.
And he wanted to hear her voice again.
Even if the only way left was to read what she had written.
David slowly rose from the chair.
He crossed the living room toward the fireplace.
The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his steps.
When he reached the mantel, he stopped.
His eyes moved first toward the photograph of his parents.
Lyra and Dorian smiled back at him.
Beside them, the six members of Gamma Squad were crowded together inside the photo booth.
David looked at each familiar face.
Then he focused on Nyra.
He remembered how close she had been standing beside him when the photograph was taken.
He remembered her laughter.
The warmth in her eyes.
The way she had made him feel as though, no matter what happened, there would always be something worth looking forward to.
David reached toward the photo booth pictures.
His fingers rested briefly against their edges.
"I wish you were here," he whispered.
He looked toward the little stuffed fox.
Then his gaze settled on the letter.
For several seconds, he simply stared at it.
Finally, he reached forward and carefully picked it up.
The paper felt delicate beneath his fingers.
He turned it over.
Captain Callum Valecrest's name was written across the outside in Nyra's familiar handwriting.
David traced the edge of the folded paper with his thumb.
He remembered how she sometimes leaned over her notes at the Academy, concentrating so completely that she barely noticed anything happening around her.
He remembered sitting beside her.
Talking.
Laughing.
Sometimes saying nothing at all.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then he opened them and looked once more at the photographs.
His parents.
His friends.
Nyra.
The people who had changed his life.
The people he loved.
David drew a slow breath and turned away from the mantel.
He walked back toward his father's chair.
The tea still rested on the small stand beside it, steam rising gently from the cup.
David lowered himself into the familiar leather cushions.
He adjusted his position and rested the letter across his lap.
For a while, he simply held it.
He could hear the faint movement of leaves outside.
The quiet settling of the house around him.
The distant sounds of a world continuing beyond the windows.
He looked toward the fireplace.
Above it, the photographs stood together beneath the katana.
His mother's smile.
His father's familiar expression.
The faces of the friends who had become his family.
And the little fox Nyra had won on an evening when none of them had imagined what the future would bring.
David looked down at the letter again.
He recognized every curve of Nyra's handwriting.
He wondered whether the words inside would make him smile.
Whether they would hurt.
Probably both.
He held the letter a little more carefully.
For the first time since returning home, he felt ready to hear what Nyra had wanted to say.
David drew a slow breath.
And began to open it.