The hardest work, however, happened beyond the investigation.
It happened in ordinary conversations.
Noah did not suddenly call Ethan every day.
He did not forgive him because an admiral confirmed he was a hero.
Some weeks, he asked questions.
Other weeks, he wanted distance.
There were conversations that ended badly.
There were questions Ethan could answer.
There were others he could not fully address because operational details remained classified.
When that happened, he said so plainly.
He stopped confusing secrecy with dishonesty.
He stopped treating silence as protection.
And whenever Noah invited him to meet, Ethan arrived.
Not early enough to make up for the missing years.
But on time.
At first, they talked mostly about practical things.
Ships.
Engineering.
Training.
How exhausted Noah had been during his final academy exercises.
Ethan discovered that his son disliked overly sweet coffee and preferred working through problems on paper before explaining them aloud.
Noah discovered that his father still woke at small mechanical noises, could repair almost anything with moving parts, and became uncomfortable whenever someone called him a hero.
Their conversations gradually became less careful.
Sometimes they argued.
Sometimes Noah demanded explanations Ethan struggled to provide.
Sometimes Ethan apologized again, only to hear his son say that apologies did not erase what happened.
Ethan learned to accept that.
He had spent too many years waiting for permission to live.
He would not spend the years he had left demanding permission to be forgiven.
One afternoon, several months after graduation, Noah met him near the Harbor Point waterfront.
The day was cool.
A gray sky hung over the harbor.
Ethan wore a clean dark jacket, his beard trimmed shorter than it had been at graduation.
Noah arrived carrying two cups of coffee.
He handed one to Ethan.
"Black," he said.
Ethan smiled faintly.
"You remembered."
Noah shrugged.
"It's not complicated."
They walked along the water.
For a while, they spoke about Noah's upcoming duties.
Then Noah stopped beside the railing.
"I have a question."
Ethan turned.
"All right."
Noah looked toward the water.
"When you were inside that submarine, did you really think you were going to die?"
Ethan considered the question carefully.
"Yes."
"What did you think about?"
Ethan rested his hands on the railing.
"Getting the system stable."
Noah glanced at him.
"That's all?"
"At first."
"And then?"
Ethan watched a small wave break against the concrete below.
"Then I thought about the people who'd already gotten out."
He paused.
"And about you."
Noah went still.
"You hadn't met me."
"No."
"You didn't even know what I'd look like."
Ethan's voice softened.
"No. But I knew you were coming."
The young officer stared across the harbor.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Noah asked, "Did you think you'd see me?"
Ethan swallowed.
"I hoped I would."
Noah nodded slowly.
He looked down at the cup in his hands.
"I don't know if we're ever going to get back everything we missed."
Ethan turned toward him.
"We won't."
Noah seemed surprised by the answer.
Ethan continued.