Everything He Forgot to Miss

Omar sits in the canteen when the announcement comes through. Naveen is across the table, and for the first time in three years he is not stirring his tea. He is watching Omar with an expression that is not quite surprise.
“You knew,” Omar says.
“I suspected,” Naveen says quietly. “For a long time. I didn’t know what to do with it.”
Omar nods. He looks down at his standard-issue trousers, the small silver meridian symbol above his left knee. He thinks about the man who compiled an evidence package nineteen months ago — who was careful enough and angry enough and brave enough to transmit it knowing what might happen. He would like to remember being that man. He would like to know what it felt like to make that choice with full knowledge and full fear and full self intact.
He does not get to have that. The four months are gone, smoothed away as cleanly as scar tissue fading below a jaw.
What he has instead is this: the investigation is open. The vats are dark. The lavender scent in the ventilation, he notices now, has been absent for three days.
He picks up his tea. It has gone cold while he was thinking, but he drinks it anyway.