The Things We Repair
Copyright© 2026 by Flubu
Epilogue
For Home
Christmas morning arrived quietly.
Daniel disliked that.
He had expected something more decisive.
Snowstorm.
Power outage.
Cattle emergency.
A tree across the lane.
Some practical crisis generous enough to occupy the part of his mind that knew exactly how many days had passed since Takuhai disappeared.
Instead, December twenty-fifth arrived clear and painfully bright.
Blue sky.
Hard snow.
Minus twenty-one.
The kind of cold that made fence wire sing when the wind touched it.
Daniel woke at six seventeen.
Alone.
He knew where Neris should have been before he opened his eyes.
That was improving.
Or becoming familiar.
He had not decided which.
Her scent had faded from the pillow.
Not gone.
Fainter.
The farmhouse seemed to be doing the same thing.
Rebalancing itself.
Neris’s absence was becoming part of the architecture.
Daniel got out of bed.
His monitor glowed green.
His pelvis no longer required the support frame inside the house.
Mara had approved limited unsupported walking two days earlier and immediately warned him not to interpret that as permission to become stupid.
Daniel had told her the distinction was subjective.
She had extended his tractor prohibition.
Claire claimed cause and effect.
Downstairs, the Christmas tree lights were on.
Daniel stopped halfway into the kitchen.
The tree had appeared three days earlier.
Claire had bought it.
Daniel had objected.
She had ignored him.
Marcel had brought ornaments from his house because Daniel’s old boxes were buried behind equipment in the attic.
Edith had somehow heard Claire was staying and sent enough baking for a regional emergency.
No one had told Edith why.
This had not reduced her production.
The farmhouse smelled of coffee.
Cinnamon.
Pine.
And very faintly, still, something else Daniel no longer trusted himself to identify accurately.
Claire stood at the counter wearing pyjamas and one of Daniel’s old sweatshirts.
“You’re up.”
“So are you.”
“I made coffee.”
“Christmas miracle.”
She handed him a mug.
Blue.
Daniel looked at it.
Claire followed his eyes.
Neither commented.
The maple receiver sat at the end of the table.
Dark.
Daniel had checked it at six eighteen.
Once.
Nothing.
Eight days.
Still inside the plausible-delay window.
They had written that too.
Three to fourteen days.
Silence compatible with operational delay.
Daniel hated how competent past Daniel and Neris had been.
Claire leaned against the counter.
“Marcel and Anne are coming at noon.”
Daniel looked up.
“Anne?”
“Yes.”
“Does Anne know?”
“No.”
“Does Marcel know she’s coming?”
“Yes.”
“That seems dangerous.”
Claire smiled.
“He said Christmas lunch was less suspicious than continuing to invent reasons not to invite her.”
Daniel drank coffee.
“What happens if she asks about the weird medical equipment?”
“We lie.”
Daniel looked at her.
Claire shrugged.
“I’m adapting.”
He smiled despite himself.
The morning passed.
Cattle first.
Marcel had already done most of it.
Daniel was allowed into the barn.
Not allowed to lift.
Not allowed to climb.
Not allowed to operate anything with an engine.
He complained.
Marcel ignored him.
Mabel behaved badly.
Daniel felt grateful.
At ten thirty, he returned to the farmhouse.
Claire was standing beside the tree.
A small wrapped package sat in her hands.
Daniel stopped.
“What’s that?”
“Yours.”
“From who?”
Claire looked at him.
Daniel knew.
Something inside him tightened so quickly he had to breathe through it.
“When?”
“She gave it to me before she left.”
Daniel stared.
“You had that for eight days?”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
“She told me Christmas.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
Daniel looked at the package.
It was wrapped in plain brown paper.
No ribbon.
A narrow line of string around it.
The wrapping had been done carefully but not expertly.
One corner folded too far inward.
Neris.
Daniel knew before touching it.
He set his coffee down.
Claire held it out.
Daniel took it.
Light.
Not very large.
The kind of package that should have contained something ordinary.
He looked at Claire.
“She said Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
Claire shook her head.
“Open it.”
Daniel sat at the table.
The receiver remained dark a metre away.
He hated that they occupied the same field of vision.
A message that had not arrived.
A gift from someone whose fate he did not know.
Daniel loosened the string.
He tried to preserve the paper.
Failed.
Neris would have laughed at that.
Inside was a folded piece of ship cloth.
Daniel stopped.
He knew the fabric.
Soft.
Dark.
The kind Neris used around her grooming supplies.
His hands became unsteady.
Claire sat opposite him.
Daniel unfolded the cloth.
The grooming brush lay inside.
Not a replacement.
Hers.
The one he had used on her tail.
The handle was worn faintly where her paws had held it for years.
Beside it lay the finer comb.
A small trimming tool.
Two sealed containers.
And the dark bottle of saleth oil.
Daniel did not touch anything for several seconds.
Then he looked at Claire.
“No.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
Daniel looked back at the kit.
“She was taking this.”
Claire nodded.
“Yeah.”
“She doesn’t have much.”
“I know.”
“Those were hers before Earth.”
“I know.”
“She uses this.”
“I know.”
Daniel picked up the brush.