By Enola Jones

The first day back after the horrible events of that Sunday, Rodney was burning the midnight oil, working hard on projects that needed to get done – and honestly, didn’t need to as well. He was boxing up projects when his hand closed over a small stone.

“It’s 2600 hours,” a brogue of a voice purred in his ear. “You’ve been up since 2300 last night.”

“I’ll go once I get this done.”

“You’ll go now. C’mon, Rodney. Bed.”

Grousing, Rodney saved everything and trudged to bed. “Fine, I’m in bed. Happy?”

“Aye. Night, Rodney.”

“Night, Carson.”

It didn’t even occur to him to question how Carson could be talking to him.

The encounters grew more and more frequent – culminating with a face to face talk with Carson out on their favourite spot to stand and chat.

As Rodney watched the shade dissolve, he felt the pain of losing his best friend all over again. He removed his hand from his pocket and frowned down at the small stone he’d held or carried next to his skin ever since he’d first picked it up.

The Ancient device in it was dark at last. No tingle. No hum.

Rodney shook it. “No…please work….”

He looked up at the horizon, tears trailing down his face.



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