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They grow old together, but only once.
He still slicks his hair back, but it's more salt than pepper these days and it’s thinner in spots than he’d like to admit.
She still draws buildings that could trap a person for days, if any of them actually conformed to the laws of physics in the first place, but now she has to put her pencil down after a few hours to rest her eyes.
They retired years ago, at least officially, so now they only travel to teach and train and advise. Sometimes they even take in the sights, but there's not much they haven't already seen.
They visit the cemeteries a few times a year: Miles, their parents, the baby boy who left even before he arrived. They visit their old colleagues, too, but those trips are fewer and farther between than they’d like.
Their children come to them, filling the house with noise and chaos. She thrives on it while they’re there; he misses it when they're gone.
They still check their totems, not to see if they're asleep, but to remind themselves that this reality they've created is far better than anything they built in their dreams.