Amanda looked out the window of her home, taken aback for a moment by the vision of Ærion laid out in front of her instead of San Fran. It was late at night, the kids had been down for hours now. She could not remember slipping into Hyperreal Hospitality, her mind was preoccupied on other things. Well one thing, the state of her marriage. It had been three days since she confronted Henry in Los Olivos. Three days on her own, without him in the house, without the sitter who she dismissed. Her work at Alameda, which was so deeply entwined with Henry, was also paused pending a resolution to their situation.

A resolution was the wrong framing, one does not resolve a love shattered. There was getting past it, in some form or another, and she could still not find a shape that would allow her to move forward. Time would show the way. Endlessly flipping the situation around, poking and prodding at it from a thousand different angles was no longer helpful, it just made the gnawing acid inside her sting more bitterly from the stirring. 

Amanda knew all the logic in the world couldn’t hush the quiet panic that gnawed at her gut. She’d tried pacing the corridors of her real home, counting steps, humming lullabies, but rest never came. At some indistinct moment, she had drifted here, into this other house on the hill in Ærion, as though her mind slipped through a half-open door between two dreams. The transition left her heart fluttering, uncertain of which world she’d meant to inhabit.

She wandered through their mid-century metaverse home, looking for signs that Henry had been here recently. The interior, while lavishly decorated, was also spartan in its utility. She idly opened the fridge finding it bare, then the recycling bin which was also barren, not even a liner inside. Henry could have come and gone at another time and there would be no trace of him inside.

We don't do small things that leave marks upon this world, she thought. We are ghosts here. Amanda smiled at that thought, as another layer of HH's appeal revealed itself to her. A whole layer of worry was stripped away in this place. She didn't have to stock this house, keep it clean, get meals on the table, or spend precious time gathering up scattered toys. Her children had never stepped foot in this world.

As she untethered herself from the responsibilities of one Amanda and settled into the one she inhabited, she considered dropping into Afterhours and letting go of both. Though tempting to lose herself in the collective—to let their dreams wash over her while a sedative in base reality lulled her into needed sleep—she didn't want mindless oblivion. First, she would need to return to her physical self if only for a few moments and that made her uneasy. Second, she realized that this was the first time she had thought of something other than Henry in days. There was new ground in this liminal dislocation, and it was far better than the numbing dissociation she had been using to cope.

Suddenly, she stood atop the kidney-shaped pool, her toes just grazing the aquamarine surface. The water shimmered but made no sound; its gentle ripples kissed the soles of her feet without wetting them. She could not recall leaving the house. Had she meant to? The surreal ease of defying gravity barely registered as shocking, another peculiarity of her disjointed evening. Instead of panicking, Amanda simply shrugged, accepting it. She drifted forward, as if led by some quiet current of thought, until she reached the yard's edge. Orion Heights spread out below her, each dim light a silent presence in the hush of midnight. Her body felt weightless, her heart heavy.

"What is Ben doing out in his yard alone?" she wondered as she caught sight of him sitting on a bucket in the center of the property. He was still, with his back to her, and without thinking she started to descend down a path from their elevated home to the street below. Overhead a bronze mechanical owl fluttered by. It was Bubo, and while Amanda's ears registered the mechanical whirring and flapping, she did not bother looking up. Her gaze stayed fixed on Ben as she turned onto the short cul-de-sac and walked the final hundred yards to their property line.

She recognized aspects of herself in his posture, here but not. A quick check of his presence revealed it to be Ben’s clone. “Interesting”, she thought. “I’ve never seen a clone in contemplation.” Her feet stepped off the pavement and onto the lushness of the lawn, sinking into the cushion of grass as she silently approached until she was just a foot behind him. Her hand reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He leaned back into it, taking comfort in her touch without turning to see who was there. They stayed that way, sharing the silence of an empty world for a moment until he finally spoke. 

“Are you done with the wall Claudia, or just missed me?” he asked.

“It’s Amanda, your neighbor. I was just checking up on you.”

Ben's clone turned just enough to catch the gleam of starlight on Amanda's cheek. Her oval face, haloed by the quiet luminescence of Ærion's simulated moonlight, seemed both familiar and alien—he recognized her as a neighbor, yet something in her expression suggested that she, too, was straining against unspoken boundaries. He felt a faint tension coil in his chest, a hint of confusion and curiosity braided together.

He twitched as Amanda’s touch startled the protocols guiding him. Ordinarily, he would stand promptly, offer a polite greeting. But her hand pressed gently, insistently on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. Conflicted impulses coursed through him—the need to please, to comply, offset by a warmth in her quiet insistence. He let out a soft exhale, easing back onto the bucket. The tension in his posture relaxed, though he remained watchful, uncertain. In that subtle exchange, he discovered that not every directive needed immediate fulfillment.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words coming automatically. "I didn't mean to assume..." His voice trailed off as he noticed something odd in Amanda's stance. She seemed to float slightly, as if not quite anchored to the grass beneath her feet. It reminded him of that moment in Afterhours when everything had started to dissolve.

Amanda moved to sit cross-legged on the ground beside him, her expensive dress pooling around her without regard for the dew-dampened earth. "No need to apologize," she said, her voice carrying that same dreamy quality as her movements. "Though I am curious why you're out here alone at this hour. Your original must be sleeping."

"Clone Claudia has her wall to build," Ben found himself saying, surprised by his own honesty. "I have an empty lot to watch." He gestured at the bare earth around them, all that undefined potential waiting for decisions his original hadn't made yet.

Amanda nodded, though whether in response to his words or some private thought wasn't clear. They sat in silence again, both looking out over the valley of Ærion, the lights of other homes twinkling like earthbound stars. Neither mentioned how strange it was to find comfort in another's presence when one of them wasn't supposed to need comfort and the other wasn't supposed to be there at all.

Somewhere out in the darkness, a distant whistle rose and fell, delicate as a memory and utterly out of place. There were no trains here; Ben knew that. Yet the gentle cry threaded itself through the hush of the night, making him shiver. He glanced at Amanda, wondering if she had heard it too, or if this stray artifact was his alone to ponder.

"Have you ever watched Real Ben sleep?" Amanda asked suddenly. "I do that sometimes, watch Henry. Not my clone. I mean I sit there in our bedroom, in our real house, and watch him sleep. Trying to understand how someone so familiar could feel so strange." She paused, seeming to catch herself. "I'm not sure why I just told you that."

Clone Ben's social optimization settings struggled to parse this disclosure. The protocols suggested deflection, perhaps a joke about surveillance, but instead he found himself asking, "Do you ever get confused about which house is real? Which version of yourself is watching?"

Amanda drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The moonlight seemed to pass through her for a moment, as if she were becoming transparent. "I used to know," she said softly. "Everything was so clearly defined. But lately..." She trailed off, staring at her hand as if unsure of its solidity.

Ben watched her watching herself fade and reform. His optimization protocols were screaming at him to say something appropriate, to maintain proper social boundaries. Instead, he reached out and gently touched her arm, checking if she was still there. She felt real enough, but the sensation echoed strangely, as if he were touching her across multiple layers of reality at once.

Amanda turned her arm under his touch, her fingers finding his. They sat that way for a while, the simple contact anchoring them both. The valley stretched out below, a dark expanse punctuated by pools of light, each one representing someone's idea of home.

"I keep finding myself in places without remembering how I got there," she said. "Earlier tonight I was in my kitchen in Pacific Heights, and then suddenly I was standing in my pool here. Not beside it, in it. On the water." She squeezed his hand slightly. "Does that ever happen to you?"

Ben thought about his endless hours on this empty lot, time slipping past without measure. About watching Clone Claudia stack stones with such certainty while he sat here unable to even imagine what kind of house he wanted. "I think I'm always exactly where I am," he said slowly. "That's part of the problem."

The mechanical owl passed overhead again, its shadow sliding across them like a question mark. Amanda tracked its flight with her eyes. "Henry and I," she began, then faltered. "When you spend so much time being what other people need you to be, sometimes you forget which version was real to begin with."

The night air had grown cooler, but neither of them moved. There was something happening in this conversation that felt important, even if neither could quite grasp what it was. Like standing on the edge of a revelation that kept shifting just out of reach. Ben noticed Amanda's gaze growing distant, her grip on his hand loosening as if she might drift away. When she spoke again, her voice carried a new vulnerability.

"The kids asked about their father today. In the real world, I mean. I answered, but afterward I couldn't remember what I'd said. I stood in the hallway trying to replay the conversation..." She shook her head slightly. "I used to be so present, so certain of every moment."

Ben felt the weight of her words, understanding something about purpose he hadn't been able to name before. Maybe watching an empty lot wasn't so different from watching oneself disappear.

“I... I need someone,” Amanda said softly, her voice barely rising above the hush of the sleeping city. “Not to solve my problems, just to notice when I’m drifting. I’ve been losing track lately—of time, of place, of my children’s small requests. It scares me.” She looked at Ben’s clone with an intensity that belied the gentle darkness around them. “You look as if you have a moment to spare. Would you keep watch sometimes, lend me a voice to call me back before I wander too far? It’s a strange favor, I know, but I’m worried I’ll miss something important if I keep spinning inside my own mind.”

"I can do that," Ben said simply, and for the first time since his creation, he felt the shape of a purpose that was entirely his own.

Amanda nodded, her form growing more solid as if his agreement had somehow anchored her. She untangled her fingers from his and smoothed her dress as she rose. "Thank you. I should go check on them now. In the real world, I mean." She paused, seeming to struggle with something. "Sometimes I'm not sure if I've actually checked or just thought about checking. Would you... would you remind me?"

"I'll remind you," he said, remaining seated on his bucket. "I'll be here." The words carried more meaning than either of them could fully grasp in that moment.

She took a few steps back toward her house, then stopped. Her hand dipped into a fold of her dress and withdrew a small golden key. "This will let you into my personal space - my real eyes and ears when I need them. Just hold the key and think of me. If I'm wearing my AR glasses, you'll be there." She hesitated. "Don't... don't tell Henry about any of this." Then she was moving up the path, her figure blending with the shadows until she disappeared into the darkness.

Ben sat for a long time after she left, feeling the night air against his skin, watching the mechanical owl circle overhead. The empty lot no longer felt like a waiting space. Now it was a vantage point, a place to keep watch. He understood that something important had just happened, even if he couldn't quite name what it was.