Remember Me: An Allegory

The second floor break room had once been a cheerful place.

At least, that was what Jesse Carpenter imagined.

The faded walls still held the ghosts of motivational posters. Rusted lockers leaned against cracked cinderblock. Someone had painted a smiling coffee mug near the microwave decades earlier. The microwave itself was gone, stolen long before New Rome swallowed the former Kingdom of Gilboa whole.

The vending machine stood like a museum piece.

Empty.

Broken.

Its cracked glass reflected thirteen tired faces.

Outside, rain drummed against shattered factory windows. Wind whistled through missing panes, carrying the smell of wet concrete and the distant smoke of industrial furnaces that now served the Empire instead of the people.

The old warehouse had become one of the resistance's countless temporary sanctuaries.

Not for long.

Jesse knew that.

Nobody else did.

Andy Shore carried a dented stockpot into the room.

"Dinner's up."

Pete followed with mismatched bowls balanced precariously on one arm.

"I still think you're going to spill it."

"I haven't yet."

"You almost did."

"Almost doesn't count."

"It counts if it's my dinner."

Jimbo Waters sniffed appreciatively.

"Fish chowder?"

Andy grinned.

"Mostly."

Jimbo frowned.

"What does 'mostly' mean?"

"It means there was fish."

"And?"

"And other things."

Jack laughed.

"If you have to ask, don't."

Phil stood dramatically.

"My friends, before we eat, I'd like everyone to know I have a vegetable joke."

Matt looked up.

"Oh?"

"But it's corny."

Silence.

Phil waited.

Nothing.

He sighed dramatically.

"Every time."

Matt blinked.

"...I don't get it."

Barty burst into laughter so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

"He still doesn't get it!"

Matt frowned.

"What?"

Pete slapped the table.

"It's about corn!"

"...Oh."

Everyone laughed.

Even Sal smiled.

That alone made the joke worthwhile.

The chowder wasn't pretty.

Potatoes.

Fish.

Wild onions.

A little cream someone had somehow traded for.

It was the richest meal they'd eaten in weeks.

Jesse watched bowls pass from hand to hand.

No one took too much.

Everyone made sure the last man received his share.

That was simply how things worked.

Not because they had plenty.

Because they didn't.

Tommy D. poked suspiciously at his bowl.

"Pretty sure this potato's older than I am."

Andy shrugged.

"Adds character."

"I think it adds tetanus."

Jimmy Smalls inhaled half his bowl.

Rad Thad stared.

"You breathe between bites?"

"Sometimes."

"When?"

"When sleeping."

Sal quietly buttered stale bread.

Nobody had asked where he'd gotten butter.

Nobody asked questions like that anymore.

Former assassin.

Current cook.

Apparently.

People changed.

Sometimes.

Jude Isaacs smiled politely around the table.

Perfectly ordinary.

Perfectly calm.

Perfectly trusted.

Jesse watched him.

Jude caught his eye.

Smiled warmly.

Jesse smiled back.

Only one of them understood what that smile meant.

They bowed their heads.

Jesse prayed.

"Our Father...

Thank You for this meal.

For these friends.

For warmth while the rain falls.

For hope while darkness surrounds us.

Teach us courage.

Teach us mercy.

Teach us to love each other well...

...especially when tomorrow is uncertain.

Amen."

"Amen."

Phil immediately ruined the solemnity.

"Does anyone know why fishermen are terrible at keeping secrets?"

Pete groaned.

"No."

"They always get caught with their nets down."

Barty nearly choked on bread.

Jack buried his face in his hands.

Jimbo laughed anyway.

Matt frowned.

"...I think I understand that one."

"Progress!"

The laughter echoed through the abandoned factory.

Old steel beams answered with hollow echoes.

For a moment—

just one—

it almost sounded like happier days.

Jesse leaned back.

Watched them.

Pete arguing over fishing knots.

Andy insisting Pete tied everything wrong.

Jimbo telling exaggerated stories.

Jack correcting every detail.

Phil inventing terrible jokes faster than anyone could stop him.

Barty laughing before punchlines.

Tommy pretending not to care.

Matt quietly observing everyone.

Jimmy eating.

Rad eating almost as much.

Sal sitting with his back naturally facing the wall.

Jude...

Listening.

Watching.

Remembering.

Jesse remembered each of them.

Pete.

First to volunteer.

Last to complain.

Andy.

Gentle giant.

Never met a stranger.

Jimbo.

Could make friends with rocks.

Jack.

Practical.

Dependable.

Phil.

Who believed making people laugh counted as holy work.

Jesse agreed.

Tommy D.

The skeptic.

Who insisted every sermon contained "at least three things impossible."

Yet somehow never left.

Matt.

Former tax investigator.

Who had once arrested men like Jesse.

Now risking execution beside them.

Barty.

Who followed because Phil asked him.

Then stayed because Jesse loved him.

Jimmy Smalls.

Who wasn't actually small.

Never had been.

The nickname simply refused to die.

Rad Thad.

Loyal beyond reason.

Sal.

Former Razor.

Former killer.

Now the first to protect children.

Amazing what grace could accomplish.

And Jude.

Poor...

broken...

Jude.

Jesse's heart hurt whenever he looked at him.

Because he knew.

The Empire had promised Jude safety.

Food.

Medicine for his sister.

Forgiveness.

All he had to do...

was tell them where Jesse would be tomorrow.

He'd already done it.

He regretted it every waking moment.

But regret couldn't unsend words.

Jesse alone knew.

Not because someone told him.

Because the Father had.

Three nights earlier.

In prayer.

No booming voice.

Simply certainty.

As undeniable as sunrise.

Jude.

He'd said nothing.

Would continue saying nothing.

Phil nudged Matt.

"So."

"So?"

"I've got another vegetable joke."

Matt sighed.

"I don't think I'm ready."

Tommy snorted.

"You're never ready."

Phil ignored him.

"What did the lettuce say to the celery?"

Matt rubbed his temples.

"I don't know."

"Quit stalking me."

Silence.

Then laughter.

Even Tommy smiled despite himself.

Rain intensified.

Thunder rolled over distant factories.

Power flickered somewhere across the city.

Not here.

There hadn't been electricity in this building for years.

Candles cast warm circles over scarred tables.

Pete broke another loaf.

"You ever miss construction?"

Jesse smiled.

"Sometimes."

"You were good."

"I was."

"You built half the eastern district."

"About a quarter."

"Still."

Andy nodded.

"You miss preaching?"

Jesse looked around the table.

"I'm preaching."

Phil raised bread.

"Hear, hear."

Matt asked quietly,

"Were you happier building houses?"

Jesse considered.

"I liked building homes."

"And now?"

"I'm helping build people."

Tommy rolled his eyes.

"That sounded rehearsed."

"No."

"It really did."

"I thought of it just now."

"Hmm."

Sal looked around.

"I've been in nicer dining rooms."

Phil nodded.

"I've performed in worse."

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

"There was one place where nobody laughed."

Tommy asked,

"Were you bombing?"

"No."

"It was a funeral."

Groans.

Actual groans.

Phil grinned triumphantly.

Jesse laughed harder than anyone.

Not because the joke deserved it.

Because he wanted to remember Phil laughing.

He wished he could freeze this evening.

Candles.

Soup.

Rain.

Friends.

The ordinary miracle of people choosing each other.

Tomorrow...

The soldiers would come.

Tomorrow...

Jude would break.

Tomorrow...

Pete would fight.

Andy too.

Sal most of all.

Matt would calculate impossible escape routes.

Phil would still crack jokes.

Tommy would swear the plan had been terrible.

Jimmy and Rad would throw themselves into danger.

Jack would protect Jimbo.

Barty would refuse to leave Phil.

Tomorrow...

Jesse would surrender willingly.

Because if he ran—

they would all die.

Dinner slowly became conversation.

Conversation became stories.

Stories became memories.

Jimbo remembered catching a fish "this big."

Jack stretched his hands much smaller.

"It was this big."

"Liar."

"Witness."

Pete recalled storms on the lake.

Andy remembered nearly drowning.

Phil claimed he once drowned twice before breakfast.

Tommy objected.

"That's medically impossible."

"I got better."

Matt confessed he'd never actually gone fishing.

The room froze.

Pete stared.

"You've never fished?"

"No."

Andy looked horrified.

"We're fixing that."

"When?"

"When this is over."

Matt smiled.

"I'd like that."

Jesse closed his eyes briefly.

So would he.

He would have liked that very much.

Barty produced a battered harmonica.

Played softly.

No one sang immediately.

Then Jack did.

Pete joined.

Andy.

Soon everyone except Tommy.

Tommy sighed.

"Oh, all right."

He sang too.

Quietly.

As though embarrassed by hope.

The old factory filled with music.

Broken windows became cathedral glass.

Steel beams became rafters.

The break room became holy ground.

Not because it was beautiful.

Because love had gathered there.

Jude couldn't sing.

His voice caught.

He looked down.

Hands trembling.

Jesse noticed.

No one else did.

After the song ended—

silence.

Comfortable silence.

Phil whispered,

"One last joke?"

Tommy groaned.

"We're doomed."

Phil smiled.

"What do you call someone afraid of vegetables?"

Matt looked suspicious.

"...What?"

"A panic."

Even Matt laughed.

Finally.

"There it is!"

Phil shouted.

"I knew we'd get him eventually!"

Everyone applauded Matt as though he'd accomplished something remarkable.

He bowed dramatically.

"Thank you.

I'd like to thank forced exposure."

Rain slowed.

Night deepened.

Candles burned lower.

People began washing bowls.

Sweeping crumbs.

Packing supplies.

Preparing for tomorrow's journey.

Tomorrow's meeting.

Tomorrow's mission.

Tomorrow's disaster.

Though only one man knew that last part.

Jesse remained seated.

Watching.

Remembering.

Memorizing.

Pete drying dishes.

Andy humming.

Jimbo wrestling Jimmy over the last crust.

Jack pretending not to smile.

Phil inventing fresh puns.

Barty encouraging them.

Tommy complaining while helping.

Matt organizing packs.

Sal sharpening a kitchen knife that would probably only cut vegetables.

Rad laughing.

Jude...

Standing alone by the rain-speckled window.

Jesse walked over.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Finally Jesse asked,

"Beautiful rain."

Jude nodded.

"It hides tears."

"It can."

Another silence.

"I'm glad you're here."

Jude swallowed hard.

"...Me too."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Jude looked ready to confess.

Ready to collapse.

Ready to beg forgiveness.

But fear held him.

Fear usually does.

Jesse placed a hand on his shoulder.

Gentle.

Steady.

"I forgive you."

Jude frowned.

"For what?"

Jesse only smiled.

"For whatever you think needs forgiving."

Jude's face went pale.

His knees nearly buckled.

But Jesse simply squeezed his shoulder once...

...and walked away.

He didn't expose him.

Didn't shame him.

Didn't accuse him before the others.

Love sometimes protects until the very last possible moment.

Behind him—

Jude quietly wept where no one else could see.

The others called for Jesse.

"Come on!"

"Game of cards!"

"You still owe me a rematch!"

"Phil's cheating!"

"I'm not cheating!"

"You absolutely are!"

Jesse laughed.

"I'm coming."

He sat down.

Picked up the battered deck.

Played terribly.

Lost repeatedly.

Didn't care.

Hours later...

Candles finally died.

One by one.

The friends rolled out sleeping bags across the old break room floor.

Someone joked about snoring.

Someone threw a sock.

Someone complained.

Someone laughed.

Eventually—

sleep claimed them.

Only Jesse remained awake.

Watching rain.

Listening to breathing.

Praying.

"Father...

Thank You.

For every laugh tonight.

Every joke.

Every bowl of soup.

Every friend.

Take care of them...

when they no longer understand what is happening.

Strengthen Pete.

Guide Matt.

Heal Tommy.

Keep Phil laughing.

Protect Sal from becoming who he was.

Comfort Jude...

especially Jude.

Forgive him before he even asks.

As You have forgiven me."

Outside—

the rain finally stopped.

Far away...

engines started.

New Rome's black transport trucks rolled quietly through the sleeping streets.

Toward the warehouse.

Toward betrayal.

Toward history.

Toward a cross that, though shaped differently in this age, would still demand the life of a man who chose to love until the end.

Inside the abandoned break room, the scent of fish chowder and fresh bread still lingered in the air, as if refusing to believe that a simple shared meal could become a memory that would outlive empires. And for one quiet night, before chains, before the courtroom, before torture and execution, thirteen friends had eaten together—laughing, teasing, praying, and breaking bread—without knowing that they had just shared their last meal with the man who had already chosen to lay down his life for them all.