It’s familiar.

A Manor serves far fewer than a palace. A family may enjoy the aesthetic comfort of a tidy kitchen. A Housekeeper must remain invisible. He sees the nuances of Purpose that gave her her arms and recognizes the hands that molded his wool. He does not look for any other staff; he already knows she is alone, and has been alone.  A Chef watches a Housekeeper, born galaxies apart, and sees himself, and may not see himself, and the gravity of negative space draws him ever closer.

“Vasilia?” He hears himself, and forgets that he even spoke the words. “Would you be my eyes, please?” 

She has no place for him. She is enough for the task. She has been enough. She will be enough. She is a universe unto themselves. But could that universe expand? He was not born to match her, and would not dare try. Slipping between spheres, slipping almost from thought, guided by a voice of his heart, he became more than a sphere. The system gains a second sun. Orbits drift in increments to match their destined paths. Nothing disturbs her trance. And yet.

Tell me who you are, Housekeeper. He does not know if you can speak anymore. A tongue may be only for tasting, now. Broken. Transcendent. Alive. He cannot tell from without, and so he asks you from within. Who are you, Housekeeper? Tell him of you, and he will tell you of him.

For this moment, you are not alone. And the universe may never be the same.

[Rolling to Overcome with Grace to make this all possible: 5 + 4 + 2 = [b]11[/b]]