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After the fear was gone, he decided to tell her—but not tell her everything. You know? Tell her a little and then wait for her reaction.

Virgil stood in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, his electric toothbrush buzzing against his teeth with the same relentless hum that had been in his head all evening. The smell of peppermint toothpaste filled the air as he swirled water in his mouth, spat it out, and leaned in closer to the mirror.

It was his eyes—those tired, goddamn eyes. He had spent most of his life using them to observe, analyze, judge. But now, they looked haunted, as if they were seeing something he couldn’t. Or maybe didn’t want to.

The others had been particularly chatty tonight. Some nights they stayed quiet, almost respectful. But tonight, they buzzed like gnats—constantly, relentlessly. He pressed his palms to his face, feeling the coarse stubble on his cheeks.

“You gonna tell her tonight?” one of them asked, an annoyingly familiar voice in his head. He didn’t even bother answering. He wasn’t ready for the conversation. Not yet. Maybe never. The thought of it made him feel exposed—stripped bare.

He flicked the light off and walked into the bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the room. Rachael was curled up in bed, propped up on her pillows, reading one of those oversized novels she loved so much. Scourge or something like that. Some Indie author he’d never heard of. Rodney McWilliams? Virgil figured it was just one more thing that got lost across the Atlantic.

Rachael didn’t look up when he walked in. She just turned a page, her hand absentmindedly caressing his side of the bed as if inviting him to join her without saying a word.

His heart pounded in his chest. The fear was still there, gnawing at him, but it had changed—morphed from terror into something different. Maybe it was determination. He had to tell her something.

He took off his shirt, felt the cold air against his skin, and climbed into bed beside her. His body ached from the weight of the day, the weight of those invisible presences that always followed him, their voices like white noise in the background of his life.

“Hey,” he said softly, settling into the pillows.

Rachael glanced over at him, smirking. “Hey yourself.”

They always started with simple pleasantries, the way you do when you’ve been married long enough that words become placeholders for something bigger, something understood without needing to be said.

He took a breath, steeling himself. His mind raced. He couldn’t just blurt it out. He had to ease into it. The key was not to freak her out.

“You know…” he started, voice low, careful. “I’ve been thinking. About something.”

Rachael didn’t look up from her book, though her lips twitched in amusement. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Ha. Ha,” he said flatly. But then he couldn’t help but chuckle. He loved that about her—the dry, British sarcasm that slipped out so effortlessly. There was something about the way she could take his seriousness and deflate it with just a few words.

“So, what’ve you been thinking about then?” she asked, her accent making “then” sound like “ven.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it’s hard to explain, but… you know how sometimes when we’re watching TV, or, like, when I’m alone in the office…”

She turned a page, still focused on her book. “Mmm-hmm?”

“Sometimes, I feel like there are others in the room. People. Not just us.”

She snorted, finally glancing up at him with one eyebrow raised. “You mean like ghosts, love?”

“Not ghosts. I don’t know what they are.” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “They talk to me sometimes. I talk to them.”

Rachael’s eyes met his, and she stared at him for a moment before laughing softly. “Virgil, you’re not going mad on me, are you?”

He smiled, but it was weak. “I might be.”

She put her book down, closing it with a soft thud, and shifted to face him, her expression softening. “Alright. Explain it to me. You’ve got my attention now.” She reached out, her hand resting on his arm.

He wanted to tell her everything. To confess about the arguments he had with them, the political debates that never ended, how they always disagreed with each other, pulling him in every direction. Some were far left, some were stubbornly conservative, and none of them ever shut up. It was exhausting.

“I can hear them,” he continued, feeling his heart race faster. “They talk about politics. They argue with each other. Philosophize. I mean, I know they’re not real, but they feel real. Sometimes, they sound like they’re right there next to me.”

Her lips parted, the bemused smile fading. “And how long’s this been going on?”

He shrugged. “A while. A couple of years maybe. I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I figured you’d think I was losing it.”

“Well, I do think you’ve lost it.” She smirked, her fingers trailing over his arm in slow, deliberate movements. “But not because of this. Maybe you just need some peace and quiet, love. Could be you’re overthinking it.”

He felt a surge of relief at her lightness, but the tension still coiled in his chest. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m onto something. They’re…they’re always discussing something big. Sometimes it’s the government, sometimes it’s society. Lately, though, it’s been more intense.”

“More intense?” She tilted her head. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like they’re getting louder. More pushy.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And they’re saying things that… I don’t know how to explain it.”

Rachael gave a low laugh, shaking her head. “You Americans. Always making things bigger than they need to be. You’re sure this isn’t just all the nonsense we see in the news getting to you?”

“I wish it was that simple.” He sighed. “It feels more real than that.”

“Real, you say?” Rachael’s accent thickened with the skepticism that laced her voice. “I hate to break it to you, Virgil, but you’re the one having conversations with invisible people. I’d say real isn’t exactly the right word here.”

“Maybe. Or maybe they’re just more aware of what’s happening than we are.”

There was a moment of silence between them, the kind that weighed heavy in the air, thick with the tension of unspoken words. She gave him a soft look, brushing her hand over his arm again, this time more gently.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “next time your invisible friends decide to have one of their little debates, tell them to let me know. Sounds like they’d make for interesting company.”

Virgil chuckled softly, but his mind was still racing. The others were quiet now, almost eerily so, as if they were waiting—watching. He could feel them in the room, lingering just out of sight, and he wondered how much longer he could keep pretending this was all in his head.

But tonight wasn’t the night for more confessions. Tonight, he’d only scratched the surface.

Virgil knelt by the pool’s heating system, tools scattered around him like fallen soldiers. The heater sputtered, struggling to maintain its prime, the water flow catching and choking as if it were as tired as he was. His hands fumbled with the valves and pipes, his fingers rough from years of labor, and the mechanical whine grated against his nerves.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaning back on his haunches, when he felt it—the familiar, unsettling shift in the air. The temperature dropped, just enough for him to notice, and that eerie quiet settled in. He wasn’t alone anymore. They had come again.

A voice, deep and self-assured, reverberated in his head, and Virgil instinctively turned his gaze toward the far corner of the room. He couldn’t see anyone, of course, but he could feel the presence, feel it looming there, as though someone or something had stepped into the space.

“You know why this is happening, right?” The voice was low, calm, authoritative, dripping with an air of superiority. “It’s because the system works for those who understand it. Business drives everything. Always has, always will.”

Virgil swallowed, his hands gripping the wrench tightly. He didn’t speak, but the presence pressed on, the weight of it creeping up his spine.

“If the government lets businesses thrive, lets the people at the top keep control, it’s better for everyone. That’s the key. You choke the rich, and the whole thing collapses. We make the decisions that keep the rest of you afloat. You might not like it, but it’s the truth.”

Virgil closed his eyes, taking a slow breath. He could picture the presence, feel it pacing in the corner, like some unseen CEO in a tailored suit, all smugness and false wisdom. It had that aura—the kind that reeked of money, of someone who never had to get their hands dirty.

“That heater you’re trying to fix?” The voice dripped with condescension. “It’s no different. You keep it running, but the people above you? They’re the ones who built this place. They’re the ones who know how to manage it. You don’t create the wealth, Virgil. You’re just keeping it from falling apart. That’s your role.”

Virgil clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against the wrench. He could feel the presence bearing down on him, filling the room like some invisible smog. The voice was right next to him now, oppressive, like a weight on his shoulders.

“The wealthy make it work,” it continued, “and the rest of you? You just keep it from burning down.”

Then, as quickly as it had come, the presence was gone. The air lightened, and the oppressive weight lifted. But before Virgil could breathe, another shift occurred—a new presence, closer, familiar.

This one was different. More grounded. A deeper warmth in the air, like someone had struck a match and let the heat slowly build. He could sense it to his left, by the old pool pump. He turned his head slightly, focusing on the feeling—like standing next to an old friend in a bar after a long shift.

“You know that’s a load of crap, right?” The second voice was gruff, with a hard edge, like someone who’d been through enough to see the world for what it was. “Without us, there’s no business. It’s the workers that make everything run.”

Virgil nodded to himself, recognizing the presence now, the familiar echo of union halls and picket lines. He knew this one well.

“When we stood together, we had real power,” the voice continued. “You remember those days, don’t you? Unions fighting for fair wages, healthcare, retirement. Those CEOs? They didn’t create that. We did. We earned it, every single damn day.”

Virgil’s chest tightened. He could picture the men his father worked with, their faces lined with age and experience. Men who worked the lines, day in and day out, never asking for anything more than what was fair. And they fought for that.

“The rich like to pretend they’re the reason we have anything, but it’s a lie. Without unions, without the workers demanding respect, everything falls apart.” The voice shifted slightly, and Virgil could almost feel the presence hovering by his side, steady and constant. “Your father, your grandfather—they knew that. You know it too. It’s us who keep things going.”

Virgil stared at the heater, his mind swirling with memories—picket lines, protest signs, the smell of sweat and grease. His father had always said that the real power lay in numbers, in solidarity.

But before he could lose himself in those thoughts, the presence faded, replaced by something colder, sharper.

Another shift in the air. Another presence.

This one was different—more demanding, more intense. Virgil felt it in front of him, hovering just over the pool’s surface, an invisible force that pressed against his skin.

“You think it’s enough just to protect what we have?” the third voice came, strong and sharp, like a blade cutting through the fog. “The workers make businesses thrive. Not the executives, not the boards. It’s the people doing the work who deserve the rewards.”

Virgil’s gaze darted toward the pool, his breath catching in his throat. This presence, this voice—it wasn’t asking for scraps. It wasn’t here for a fair shake. It was demanding more.

“They’ve been taking from you, from all of us, for decades,” the voice insisted. “High wages, healthcare, real retirement—that’s not a favor. It’s a right. And it’s time you started demanding it. No more of this ‘trickle-down’ nonsense. The rich get richer, and you get nothing. That ends now.”

The presence moved, its intensity filling the room. Virgil could feel it swirling around him, pushing at him, urging him to do more than just listen. It was like a current, pulling him into its tide.

“They think they can keep you in line with a few dollars, but you’ve earned more than that. It’s your work that makes these businesses run. It’s your sweat that keeps the gears turning. You deserve more, Virgil. All of us do. And it’s time to start taking it.”

Virgil’s pulse quickened. The voice wasn’t wrong. The workers, the people breaking their backs day after day, had always been given the least, while the ones at the top reaped the benefits. He had seen it all his life.

The presence hovered near, pressing its truth into his bones. “It’s not just about protecting what you have. It’s about taking what’s yours. Don’t let them steal any more of your life.”

Virgil stood there, the room heavy with the echoes of the three voices, each one pulling him in a different direction. The first, with its cold, businesslike logic. The second, with its warmth and solidarity. And the third, with its righteous anger, demands more.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a soft glow across the terrace. Rachael wiped her hands on her apron, dirt smudging her fingers from hours spent in the garden. The scent of rosemary and soil still clung to her as she carried a tray of tea and biscuits. Her eyes darted toward the pool where she had watched Virgil earlier, his hands buried deep in the heater’s guts while he muttered to himself.

She’d seen him talking to himself before. It wasn’t unusual. Everyone did it from time to time. But today, something had been different. The way he paused, as if listening to responses she couldn’t hear. His head turned slightly, like he was acknowledging someone. It wasn’t one conversation—it was several. And though there was no one else there, Rachael had felt a strange presence, an intangible weight in the air.

Virgil was seated at the small stone table, the one they shared morning coffee at, now absorbed in a sudoku puzzle. The pencil hovered in his hand, but his mind seemed elsewhere, his eyes unfocused. She set the tray down, the clink of porcelain pulling him back to the moment.

“Tea’s ready,” she said lightly, taking a seat across from him.

“Thanks,” Virgil muttered, though he didn’t immediately reach for it. His eyes drifted back to the puzzle.

Rachael poured herself a cup, watching him carefully. She knew him well enough to sense when something was off, and today, it was more than just an off day. But she had learned not to press too hard. Virgil wasn’t a man who reacted well to pressure.

They sat in silence for a while, the garden’s hum filling the quiet. Birds chirped, a soft breeze ruffled the leaves, and yet, beneath it all, she could still feel that lingering presence. Like it hadn’t entirely left.

Rachael took a slow sip of tea, finally breaking the silence. “I saw you earlier. By the pool.”

Virgil tensed slightly but kept his eyes on the puzzle, filling in a number with more force than necessary. “Yeah?”

“I’ve heard you talk to yourself before, Virgil,” she began, keeping her voice calm and steady. “But today was… different. It sounded like you were having a full-on conversation. With more than one person.”

He paused, his pencil stopping mid-air. Slowly, he put it down and exhaled, his shoulders dropping as though he had expected this conversation and dreaded it.

“I was,” he said simply, still not meeting her gaze.

Rachael leaned forward slightly, setting her cup down. “Who are they?”

Virgil closed his eyes briefly, running a hand through his hair. “They’re not people, Rachael. I don’t… see them. I don’t know them.”

“Then who are they?” Her voice was gentle, probing but not accusing. She trusted him—trusted his mind—but she needed to understand. “What are they?”

Virgil sat back, finally looking at her, his face lined with thought. “They’re just… presences. Voices. They’re there, but they’re not there. I can’t explain it. I just know they’re real.”

Rachael studied him, her brow furrowing, but not in disbelief—more in concern. “You hear them? Like, conversations?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, the tension in his voice palpable. “They talk to me. Sometimes they argue with each other. Politics, life, work… it’s like listening to a debate.”

“About what?” she pressed, leaning in.

He hesitated, unsure of how to convey the strangeness of it all without sounding mad. “About everything. About how the world works. Business, power, unions, the rights of workers. It’s all these perspectives—like they’re pulling me in different directions. And I know it sounds crazy, but they’re not dangerous, Rachael. I’m not in danger.”

Rachael listened carefully, her mind working to process what he was telling her. She could feel the intelligence behind his words, the way he was trying to break down something that even he couldn’t fully comprehend. But this was Virgil—PhD in mathematics, a man who built businesses from the ground up. He wasn’t someone prone to flights of fancy. If he said there were voices, presences… she had to believe there was something to it.

“And they’ve been coming for a while?” she asked, her voice calm, as though they were discussing something as routine as a garden plant that needed tending.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his tone softening. “A couple of years, on and off. Sometimes they’re quiet for weeks, and other times… they just won’t shut up.”

Rachael let out a slow breath, reaching for one of the biscuits on the tray. She didn’t know how to feel—worry wasn’t the right emotion. If it had been anyone else, she might have questioned their sanity, but not Virgil. He was steady, brilliant, grounded. He had always seen the world differently, understood things she couldn’t. That was part of why she loved him.

“Do they say anything about me? About us?” she asked, her tone soft but curious.

Virgil shook his head. “No. They’re not interested in us. They don’t care about personal stuff. It’s always… bigger than that. Like they’re here to discuss how the world should work, what’s broken, what needs fixing. It’s frustrating sometimes because they never agree. It’s like watching three sides of an argument, and none of them is willing to back down.”

Rachael nodded, processing it all. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten lost in philosophical debates. But this was different—it wasn’t just his mind running in circles. These voices, these presences, were feeding the thoughts.

“Does it feel dangerous?” she asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap.

“No.” Virgil looked directly at her, his eyes clear and certain. “It doesn’t feel like a threat. It’s just… there. It’s like they’re trying to make me see things from every angle.”

She studied him for a long moment. Her trust in him, in his mind, never wavered. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have questions. “Virgil, I know you’re not losing it. You’ve got a better head on your shoulders than anyone I know. But… if it ever feels like they’re pushing you too hard, or if something changes—will you tell me?”

Virgil smiled, a small, grateful curve of his lips. “Yeah, I’ll tell you.”

Rachael reached across the table, placing her hand on top of his. “You don’t have to carry this alone, you know. You’ve always been brilliant, but you’ve also got me. We can figure it out together.”

He squeezed her hand, relief washing over him. In that moment, he realized why he had never told anyone else about the voices. It wasn’t fear of being judged or thought insane. It was because no one but Rachael would have understood. She wasn’t there to fix him or make him feel small. She was there because she believed in him—even when things didn’t make sense.

As they sat in the warmth of the late afternoon, the quiet presence seemed to linger just out of reach. But it was distant now, and for once, Virgil felt like it didn’t have control over him. Not today.

The soft clatter of Virgil’s fingers against the keyboard echoed through the studio, the afternoon light filtering in through the tall windows. He paused, staring at the half-finished manuscript on his screen, the middle novel of the five-volume series that had consumed his focus for months. The story was complex, winding through layers of themes about power, society, and the deep struggles of humanity—but as much as it absorbed him, something else weighed on his mind.

He reached for his coffee cup, taking a slow sip, his eyes shifting to the far corner of the room. There, where the light didn’t quite reach, he sensed it. The presence. No, presences. They were back—the same three from the day before.

They lingered in the studio, quiet, but he could feel them. They weren’t arguing today, not like before. There was a heaviness about them, almost as if they were waiting for something. Their silence was worse than their debates. Virgil took another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle in his chest before setting the cup down. He could feel their unease, their tension. It made his skin prickle.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, finally addressing the air that felt thick with their presence.

“You’re all quiet today,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “What’s the matter? You’re not usually the silent type.”

Nothing.

Virgil sat up straighter, his mind turning over the last conversation they had in the pool house. The debates, the tug of war over politics, wealth, and power. They’d left him agitated, pulled between perspectives that all felt real, but none seemed fully right. He exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You’re worried,” he said aloud, eyes drifting back to the corner. “I can feel it.”

Still, they didn’t respond. He felt a growing sense of impatience, a weight pushing down on him, like they expected something from him. Something deeper.

So he gave them what they wanted.

“The two-party system,” Virgil began, his voice low but steady, “it’s built on two pillars that keep this whole structure upright. On the right, you’ve got the pillar that protects the wealthy—the elite. Their entire goal is to keep the rich in power, to make sure the wealthy hold the keys to everything. It’s always been about control, about concentrating power in fewer and fewer hands.”

He paused, glancing around the room. The presences stirred slightly, like shifting shadows on the edge of his vision.

“And on the left,” he continued, “the other pillar stands to protect the people. To keep the powerful from turning the country into a dictatorship, or worse, a monarchy where the rich rule over the rest of us. The left is supposed to fight for the rights of the people, to make sure the wealthy don’t seize complete control. It’s a constant battle, but the thing is…” He paused, leaning forward, his voice growing firmer. “It’s not a fair fight.”

He sensed them listening now, their focus sharp, and the room grew tighter around him.

“Unpack it,” Virgil went on. “We’ve let wealth accumulate in the hands of so few. They own almost everything—the media, the politicians, the laws. When you’ve got that kind of wealth, you can shape the entire system to work in your favor. And what does the left do? It tries to protect what little the people have left. But the game’s already rigged.”

A soft shift in the air. One of the presences seemed to pulse, as if urging him to go on.

“The solution is simple,” Virgil said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “You put caps on wealth. You stop the accumulation of obscene amounts of money in the hands of the top one percent. No one needs billions, but they’ve convinced us that taking some of that away would ‘destroy the economy.’” He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit. All that wealth at the top? That’s why the economy’s broken.”

He stood up, pacing now, feeling the weight of his argument pushing back against the room. “They say if you cap wealth, you stifle growth. But that’s a lie. What stifles growth is letting all that money sit in the hands of a few who hoard it. That’s what causes inflation. That’s why the prices of everything keep going up—food, rent, healthcare—because they’re squeezing us dry to keep their margins fat. And the more they hoard, the less circulates through the economy.”

The air in the room was electric now. The presences weren’t just listening—they were absorbing it, feeding off the energy of his words. Virgil stopped pacing and stood by the window, staring out at the garden where Rachael had been earlier.

“We’re stuck in this endless loop,” he muttered, turning back to the room. “The right-wing says ‘let the wealthy have their way, they’ll create jobs, the wealth will trickle down.’ But it never does. It never has. And the left tries to defend the scraps, but that’s not enough. It’s not enough to just protect people from losing what little they have. You have to take back what’s been stolen. People don’t want to get by they want to get ahead.”

He could feel the presence closest to him—more than just a sense of movement, it was almost like a pressure in the air, right by his shoulder.

“The real problem,” Virgil said, his voice growing darker, “is greed. It’s not just money—it’s addiction. The addiction to greed. The more they have, the more they want. And they won’t stop until they have everything. Wealth caps aren’t just about money—they’re about saving society from a system designed to feed that addiction.”

The presences seemed to quiver, as though his words were rattling something loose.

“They’ll tell you that income caps would stifle innovation, but that’s a lie too. If anything, capping wealth would force businesses to reinvest in their workers, their infrastructure. It would make them focus on real growth, not just bloated profits. It would stop this absurd inflation. Because when all the money’s locked up in the hands of a few, everything else gets more expensive for the rest of us.”

The air around him felt charged, almost vibrating with the tension of the room.

“You want to know why healthcare is a scam? Why pharmaceutical companies can charge whatever they want? It’s because they can. Because the system lets them. The people who could stop it—the ones in power—they’re bought. It’s not about providing care; it’s about milking every cent they can from us. And it’s only possible because we’ve let the rich write the rules.”

He felt the presences shift again, this time with an almost palpable sense of agreement, like they were silently nodding along.

“So, yeah,” Virgil concluded, his tone heavy but resolute, “wealth caps aren’t the enemy. The real enemy is letting this system of unchecked greed continue. We put limits on power for a reason. Why shouldn’t wealth be any different?”

The room was still, but not in a quiet way. It was the kind of stillness that comes after a storm, after the dust has settled. Virgil let out a breath, feeling the weight lift from his chest. The presences, though still there, felt calmer now. The tension had eased.

He turned back to his desk, his coffee long forgotten, and sat down in front of his manuscript. The presences remained, but this time, they were silent. Watching. Waiting.

Virgil sat back in his chair, the weight of his own words still hanging in the room like a dense fog. The presences had settled, their earlier tension replaced by a quiet resolve. For the first time in a while, they weren’t bombarding him with debates or contradictions. There was no tug-of-war between perspectives. Instead, they seemed to share a collective understanding—an unspoken agreement that things had shifted, and not just within the political landscape but within Virgil himself.

He picked up his coffee, taking a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through him. It was odd how calm he felt, considering the enormity of the thoughts swirling in his mind. His manuscript lay open on the screen, but his mind had long since drifted away from the world of fiction. There was too much at stake in reality now.

“The fight is real,” Virgil muttered to himself. The presences remained still, as if waiting for him to continue. “It’s no longer about compromise, or about hoping that people who’ve made it clear they don’t care will suddenly start to. It’s about drawing a line. And the Democrats… they’ve finally drawn that line.”

He stood up again, his fingers tracing the edge of his desk, the tension in his body now replaced by a sense of clarity. His thoughts felt aligned, like a jigsaw puzzle snapping into place. For years, he had felt pulled in every direction—by the voices, by the conflicting ideologies that battled for his attention—but now, for the first time, he saw the path clearly.

“The GOP’s been running the country like a business for the wealthy, for the powerful,” Virgil continued, pacing slowly in front of his desk. “They’ve sold off pieces of democracy, bit by bit, all while distracting the public with fear and lies. And the Democrats… they’ve tried to be civil, to play by the rules. But rules don’t mean a damn thing to people who see them as obstacles.”

He glanced toward the window, watching the last of the afternoon sun dip behind the trees in the garden. Rachael would be coming in soon, no doubt checking on him, making sure he wasn’t too caught up in his thoughts. She understood him—knew his mind was a labyrinth of ideas and analysis, but she also knew how to pull him back when the weight of it all became too much. He was grateful for that.

“They’re finally calling them out,” Virgil said, this time more to himself than to the presences. “Calling them out on the criminality, the lawlessness. On the way they’ve twisted the Constitution to fit their greed. The Democrats are done trying to get along with people who are actively trying to destroy the very fabric of the country. They’re finally standing up and saying, ‘No more.’”

The presences stirred slightly, like the faintest ripple of wind through the room. Virgil could feel them, their quiet but attentive presence still palpable, but they felt less oppressive now. As if they, too, had found some measure of peace.

He sat back down, staring at his unfinished manuscript, his mind still racing with the broader crisis unfolding in the world beyond his window. But something was different now. The doubt, the constant back-and-forth of perspectives pulling him in different directions, had quieted. He felt grounded, clear-headed. There was a new strength in his resolve.

“This is just the beginning,” Virgil whispered, fingers resting on the keys. “The Democrats aren’t just fighting back for the sake of it. They’re fighting because this is a fight for survival—of democracy, of the people’s right to be free from the stranglehold of the rich and the powerful.”

He could feel the presence nearest to him, hovering just over his shoulder. It felt pensive, almost contemplative, as if waiting for his final thoughts on the matter.

“The people need to be reminded,” Virgil continued softly. “The government exists to serve them, not to rule them. And that’s what the Democrats are doing—they’re reminding everyone of what’s been lost, of what’s been stolen, and they’re taking it back.”

He paused, his hand hovering over the keyboard, then nodded as though confirming something to himself. The presences were quieter now, more settled. It was as if they had come to some sort of consensus—a rare harmony between them that Virgil hadn’t experienced before.

He typed a few words on the screen, not part of his novel but part of the thoughts swirling in his head. The fight isn’t just political. It’s personal. The people’s freedom and future are on the line, and it’s time to stand up and fight.

The presence at his side flickered slightly, a quiet acknowledgment, and then the room felt lighter. The weight of the debate, the constant push and pull, had eased. The presences were still there—Virgil knew they always would be—but they no longer felt like a burden. They were, for now, a silent chorus, watching, waiting.

He leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting back toward the garden. The fight wasn’t over. It was just beginning. But now, with his mind clear and his resolve steady, Virgil knew he wasn’t alone in it.

The presences would stay, but he wasn’t afraid of them anymore. He had found his balance, and as he sat there, feeling the quiet hum of their presence in the room, he realized that the war for the soul of the country wasn’t just in the streets or in Washington. It was in the hearts and minds of everyone who had been pushed too far, too long. And now, finally, they were pushing back.

And so was he.

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