He nods heavily, dumbly. He loves her. He loves the life they've made together -- days spent here in the home of his memory, days spent in a clearing with wildflowers and the sun and the hum of bees around them.

But he says what he must say.

"A man may be at sea -- it still isn't right to set up house with his wife." A pause, then, "Neither of us knew. I know we didn't. There is no blame -- you are not at fault, neither am I. It's the Singularity, and it's hard for me to have anger for it. It gave you to me, me to you." A pause. "But I wish I didn't know the rest. I wish it had understood that you weren't free."