Polska · 51°06'N 16°59'E

She wouldn't talk. And I couldn't shut up.

It had always been this way—I talk, she's silent. I dream up, she executes. Shelly called it "ideal distribution." I called it unbearable.

We'd just come from the bunker. Concrete, echo of gunshots, smell of cordite. And now—forest.

A Polish February forest smells of pine needles, rotting leaves, and smoke. Our fire was smouldering—the wood was wet. Smoke crept into my eyes, but I didn't move away. Warmth mattered more.

"You know," I said, tossing a branch into the flames, "I thought it would be different."

She looked at me. One eye—the other was swelling shut from a rifle butt.

"What exactly?"

"Everything."

She nodded and turned away. Our longest conversation in an hour.

I tried the word "sister" on my tongue. Sister. Twin. Neither felt right.

"Are you asleep?"

"No."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying."

The fire was dying. I got up, threw on more branches.

"Listen, imagine this. We set up a script to track every single camera in the world. Walk into a shop, fill a trolley, roll up to the checkout—and the programme pays automatically. Sees us on camera and pays. Cool, right?"

She didn't answer.

"Fine then. By the way, you were born before me, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"So why didn't you get me anything for my first birthday?"

Half-asleep, sluggish:

"I could give you the pistol."

"I've been told I talk too much. Well, you know who by. He's just so... serious. Always serious."

"He's not serious," she said suddenly. "He's just tired. Deathly tired. Like me."

I fell silent.

Somewhere past midnight. The fire had burned down again. I threw on more wood.

"Why don't you answer?"

A long pause. Then:

"No words. Inside. Empty. I use them sparingly, so they last."

"I'm the opposite. Too many."

"I know."

"How?"

"You're me. Inverted."

"I'm cold."

She said nothing. Just shifted, and my head ended up on her shoulder.

Cordite. Fire. Pine.

I closed my eyes.

Woke to light. February light, dim. She was sitting in the same position—as if she hadn't moved all night.

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

"At all?"

"Someone had to keep watch."

I looked at her face—bruises, bloodshot eyes. Said nothing.

Got up. She caught my wrist. Looked at my knee—the one I'd smashed in Prague, jumping from the bridge.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's fine."

She pressed two fingers below the kneecap. I flinched.

"It's not fine," she said. And let go.

"Look who's talking."

She didn't answer. But I could see — her left arm moved stiffly, she was guarding her ribs, and dried blood on her temple she hadn't even tried to wipe.

Got up. And saw my socks.

Or rather—what was left of them. Black shreds on a stick.

"My socks burned!"

"I know."

"When?!"

"In the night. You were talking about him. Didn't want to interrupt."

Her boots were scorched too—laces melted, tops blackened. Mine were no better.

"We look like tramps."

"We are."

"No. We're terabytes. Inside us—the Library of Congress."

"And outside—ash."

I laughed. She didn't laugh, but her eyes warmed slightly.

Young pines at the edge of the clearing. Knee-high, with soft branches. I broke off several—the smell so strong it stung my nose.

Gathered them into something like a bouquet. Crooked, absurd.

Came back. Thrust them into her hands.

"Here."

She looked at the branches.

"This is..."

"Just."

Then she turned away. Quickly, sharply.

When she turned back — she looked down. At my jeans, torn at the knee. At the graze beneath — from Prague, still raw.

"Need to clean that."

"With what? Morning dew?"

She pulled a flask from her pocket without a word. Poured water onto her palm, carefully washed the wound. Hands steady, precise. Like someone who'd spent the whole night deciding whether to bother.

We stood in the February forest. Her—with a bouquet, in scorched boots. Me—with pine needles on my palms.

Terabytes inside. Ash outside.

And the scent of pine between us.

We walked in silence. The forest parted, closed behind us.

"Maybe we should tell him?"

She didn't answer. Walked, looked ahead.