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| SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST |
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(PHROLOVA'S POV)
Outside the train's window, a labyrinth of trees gave way to emerald fields. The breath of dawn rushed from the land to the sea; the sun's light stirred, and like a match to fodder ignited the sky.
Phrolova dozed, head resting on the humming window. Her arms hung around her violin's case in a loose hug – not forgotten, and not well hidden either.
Few would take the night train to a sleepy, tiny village in the sticks; Phrolova was the only paying passenger there.
As the warm light passed through the window, it scanned the cabin until its color stirred Phrolova, and she opened her eyes.
The performance had gone better than she could have hoped for.
Her original compositions had ignited the audience – every piece met with a standing ovation. Phrolova had to check the train's destination to make sure she was truly returning and had not dreamt it all. It made her proud yet fearful. This had been her most daring expedition yet. No doubt, a future on tour was possible. Then she would be farther from home than she had ever been.
Phrolova hugged her violin case a little closer. Even if Granny Leah had reassured Phrolova that it was only because of her mother's anxiety of Phrolova going so far away, Phrolova could not shake the thought of the argument she had with her mother. Remembering how she acted back then… and even after she had done so, her mother had prepared this dress for her.
She had no doubts: she would apologize to her mother as soon as she could.
An announcement rang from the train's speaker system: they would be arriving soon. As Phrolova daydreamed an apology, the dawn became blue, and it was morning.
The walk from the train station was a few miles.
As the asphalt gave way to a dirt road, Phrolova halted, contemplating the boundary.
Then she gave in.
Undoing the straps of her high heels, she took them off and continued barefoot. The morning dew had cooled the dirt. It sunk in: she was home.
A wry smile formed. She walked, her heels in one hand and her case in the other, and she did a slow spin. The field's crops waved with her, their yellowing tips promising, "Tomorrow, tomorrow!' And they would be ripe for harvest.
Peaking up over the emerald-gold ocean, a few souls wandered with plows and other implements in hand. Within hearing range, they shouted, "There she is! How was the performance?" "That's our village's treasure – you ain't leaving for good, are ya?" "Phrolova! My daughter has finally come of age, but has absolutely no interest in the arts. What am I to do with her?"
Phrolova answered all in kind, dwelling for minutes on end until they shooed her away, scolding her for keeping more important people waiting – yet even in their rebukes, their hearts were full. The contrast escaped Phrolova: an ethereal beauty, laughing and attending to her elders, whose bent backs and crows-feet at the edge of their eyes denoted a chasm of experience between them. All who knew her loved her.
As the main center of the village came into view, Phrolova closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The earthy smell of the crops and dirt, the rustling of the stalks in the wind, the feeling of the cool, loamy ground beneath her. In that moment, she knew she could never be away from home for long.
"Hey, Phrolova's back!"
Phrolova opened her eyes, and nearly fell over from Triss's tackling-hug. Laughter bubbled from Phrolova. "Triss~, my hands are full."
"No worries! I'll do all the hugging for both of us." She tightened her hug, swaying a bit side to side in that way couples did in an amateur slow dance. Phrolova squeaked when Triss tried to lift her; Aeschylus stopped them just before they fell together.
Triss was way too strong for a girl her age! The tomboyish darling of the village, she led the other kids as a chieftain.
Aeschylus gave an exasperated exhale, but he was smiling as much as Triss was. "How were your performances? All smooth, I hope?"
Phrolova could only exchange a few details before Triss took her by the wrist. "Phrolova, I prepared a surprise for you. Come on!"
As she was dragged away, Phrolova gave a rushed apology to Aeschylus behind her, but he merely laughed back, "Go on, make sure to pass by Leah's."
Phrolova couldn't tell if he had caught her promise from so far away.
The dirt paths became cool brick, and Triss led her all along the perimeter of the village center. Evidence of her misadventures speckled the tiles – cracks memorializing her experiments in tool making, a conspicuously empty space where she had displaced some other village prop nobody remembered to make room for whatever fixation she had that day. Triss daydreamed with her hands, as though there was only a thin layer of thought separating her subconscious and her immediate surroundings: a source of a thousand joys, and a thousand crises. Melissa, Triss's mother, could attest to that.
Triss brought them to a building with an overhang. A small lockbox was on the floor.
"If you want me to show you, we got to play a little game."
Phrolova took a minute to catch her breath. "And what might this game be?"
"Impressions!"
A shudder passed through Phrolova.
Triss quickly interjected, "Only one round this time, I promise!"
"Okay, okay. Can I ask for a hint?"
The cogs visibly turned in her mind. "… Okay – but just this once. Don't use it at the beginning."
"It's a deal then. What do you have this time?"
Triss slowly traced a full moon with both of her hands, then with a dramatic flair rested her wrists on the crown of her head, her pointer fingers pointed out in diagonals.
"Ooh, are you a deer?"
"Mm, mm."
"How about an owl?"
She shook her head. "What kind of guess is that?" she huffed.
"Haha, I'm sorry. I don't know what else would have something like horns. Can I use my hint?"
"Tsk, tsk. Can't you see it already?"
Just out of the corner of Phrolova's eye, she saw a the shimmer of golden hair. She turned, and there was Melissa. She had been looking for Triss, no doubt – but something was off. Her eyes were wide, locked on the two of them. She took a step forward, her hands over her heart. "… Triss?"
Without saying a word, Triss turned and opened the lockbox, taking something from it. She turned and held out a gilded quill. It's plume was as though it had fell from a bird of prey. As the vane of the feather converged on its hollow shaft, streaks of gold laced around a red base, drawing clovers and spades in golden indents until it met star-silver. A bead of red welled up at its tip.
"Triss," Phrolova breathed. "It's so beautiful… where did you get this from?" Phrolova traced a finger along the quill.
Melissa stepped forward. "What are you doing here? You were in the house a few minutes ago."
"Heehee." Triss gave a bashful smile. "I snuck out. You weren't heading for the village, so it was easy."
Triss grabbed Pholova's hand and placed the quill in it. Melissa stepped forward and began dragging her away.
As Phrolova pondered Triss's uncharacteristic compliance, Triss turned around and spoke. "Oh, Phrolova – one more thing."
Without thinking about it, Phrolova's grip tightened around the quill.
The pen grew warm. And time stopped. A river of memories passed through Phrolova: grains of moments like sand, melted into glass and made into small marbles held in her hand.
Suddenly, Phrolova's hands were cold. She had dipped them into the river for the first time. Her father was already halfway in. His shoulders made broad wings. When he put Phrolova on them and ran, it was as though she were flying. Blue shimmered in clear water: he yanked his net, and a fleeing fish launched into the air like a bird.
Phrolova's eyes flew up to the afternoon blue as she talked to Ynkwell. The stars blinked out at dawn as they usually did, but the two were hiding together avoiding chores. As Ynkwell moped about the illusory nature of the moon in the night sky, Phrolova wrapped herself around a young tree, leaning over and peaking over Ynkwell's shoulder. A stroke of genius struck the young musician, and she suggested that the stars were fake, too. Ynkwell objected – if those were fake, then how far had the Lament reached? As they made their amateurish agora there, their parents were drawn to their sanctuary by the chatter.
Her parents were behind her. A crowd had formed hours earlier, but Phrolova was only allowed to get this close now. Every few minutes, the innermost circle coalesced around a point then left, their full hearts evident in their expressions.
As Phrolova drew closer, the commotion at the center was revealed. There was a baby, wrapped in colored linens like royalty. Yellows, purples, and blues intertwined into a cocoon that could be propped up against a wall without moving. The mother was inside recovering, so the grandparents took it upon themselves to handle the young one's debut. When the newborn stirred and curled their little fingers into a tiny fist, the inner circle broke into laughter. That innocent gesture anticipated Triss's dislike of crowds, and it prefigured Phrolova's love of Triss's daring spirit.
In Phrolova's peripheral vision, a second dawn fell from the sky. As Triss looked back at her, her lips moved, but the air was already growling, boiling, deafeningly loud.
"Don't be scared of death. Be scared of not living at all."
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| SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST |
[ BLACKSHORES ]
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( PHROLOVA'S POV )
The roar never finished.
It split — warped — folded in on itself—
And Phrolova jerked awake.
Her lungs dragged in air like she had surfaced from deep water. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
No golden fields.
No brick paths.
No Triss.
Only the low mechanical hum of ventilation units and the sterile blue glow of monitors.
The Blackshores.
Her temporary living quarters were small but efficient — steel-paneled walls, a narrow bed bolted near the corner, a desk overtaken by holo-screens projecting layers of data. Notes were scattered everywhere: physical paper, digital projections, half-finished equations blinking impatiently for her return.
She pressed the heel of her palm against her sternum.
Her heartbeat wouldn't slow.
The dream again.
Not a dream.
A memory rearranged by guilt.
Her gaze drifted toward the desk automatically, like her body had been trained to anchor itself to work before panic could swallow her whole.
Notes over notes.
Taps over keypads.
Stress over paranoia.
That had been her routine for days now.
Weeks, perhaps.
Time blurred easily in Blackshores.
She pushed herself upright, brushing damp strands of hair away from her face. The mirror across the room reflected someone thinner than she remembered — cheekbones sharper, dark crescents under her eyes like bruises from sleepless battles.
"Is it childish to complain?" she muttered hoarsely to the empty room.
Yes.
The answer came immediately.
Of course it was.
She had chosen this.
When she made the decision to bring it all back from ashes — to refuse the finality of that second dawn — she knew what it would cost. Sleep. Peace. Simplicity.
Sanity, perhaps.
But she could not let it end there.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor.
The world had not earned the right to decide that their joy was temporary.
Not like that.
Not on a whim.
Her terminal flickered as it sensed her movement. Data resumed scrolling in neat columns — frequency charts, resonance patterns, reconstructed waveform models.
Her research had been… promising.
Disturbingly promising.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes scanning the highlighted segments.
The data confirmed it again.
Tacet Discords were not random.
They were not purely alien.
They were born from human frequencies.
From the imprints of emotion, memory, identity.
A fragment of someone.
An individuality distorted — but not erased.
Her fingers hovered over the keypad.
"If that's true," she murmured, voice steadier now, "then perhaps it isn't just about rebuilding bodies…"
Her reflection flickered faintly in the screen. "…but amplifying the fragment."
Enhancing it.
Feeding it.
Until whatever piece of humanity remained roared loud enough to reclaim itself.
The thought both thrilled and terrified her.
Experiments had yet to begin.
As…
She stopped herself.
No.
Not that line of thinking tonight. Her shoulders slumped slightly. She had made progress. More than she expected in such a short span.
And yet—
Loneliness seeped in around the edges.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling where dim light strips mimicked a false twilight.
"He hasn't visited," she said softly.
Not in a while.
Her lips curved faintly — not quite a smile.
Was he busy playing hero again?
Throwing himself into some impossible battlefield?
Or was he preparing.
For his plan.
For his passing.
Her jaw clenched at the thought.
She hated that she could not tell which possibility unsettled her more. "I suppose it isn't my place to control it," she whispered. Control had never truly been hers to begin with.
The only thing she could control was this.
The research.
The second chance.
She rose from the bed and walked toward the wide observation window at the end of the room. Beyond the reinforced glass, Blackshores stretched outward — dark waters colliding endlessly with jagged structures, lights blinking like distant stars swallowed by fog.
She placed her palm against the glass.
"I'm blessed," she said, as if convincing herself. "To begin again."
With technology.
With company.
With acceptance.
At least—
She closed her eyes.
"…I think I am."
But even as she stood there, surrounded by steel and circuitry instead of golden crops and dew-soaked earth, she could still hear Triss's voice echoing in the hollow chamber of her chest.
Don't be scared of death.
The nightmare wasn't about dying.
It was about failing to bring them back to life.
And that—
That was something she refused to let happen again.
That itchy, fearful part of me won't quiet down.
It crawls beneath my skin, whispers in the spaces between keystrokes, fills the pauses where your voice should be.
Why aren't you here?
The thoughts come uninvited.
Maybe you found out what I did.
Maybe someone told you. Maybe you saw the early drafts of the project, the simulations I tried to bury under encryption and academic phrasing.
Maybe you pieced it together — what I'm attempting to revive, what I'm willing to distort.
Maybe you looked at it and decided you didn't want to look at me anymore.
Or worse—
Maybe you pity me.
Maybe you think I'm fragile. That I need distance. Space I never asked for.
Mercy disguised as silence.
Or maybe… you simply don't care.
The last possibility tastes the most bitter.
"No," I whisper sharply into the room, as if I can cut the thought in half before it grows teeth. "Stop."
I straighten in my chair, fingers curling against the edge of the terminal.
I need to be better than this.
I want to live on for myself. I do. I refuse to let my existence orbit entirely around someone else's gravity.
But the truth — the humiliating, tender truth — is that I don't want to live on rejected by you.
I want to see you.
I want you standing across from me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that way you do when you're thinking too hard.
I want to ask what you think of it.
Of this.
This crime I am preparing to commit in full daylight.
This defiance against the natural order. Against fate. Against whatever cosmic law decided that some lives should simply… end.
I was so certain before.
So resolute when I spoke to the woman cloaked in blue and white. My voice had not wavered then. I believed every word.
That if we had to part, then so be it.
That sacrifice was inevitable.
But now—
Now I realize something shameful.
A part of me cannot bear the thought that we might part not in body—
—but in conscience.
What will we mean to each other at the end of this?
What am I to you?
Or at least… the next you?
The version of you who will exist after this trial is over. After we carve separate paths into whatever remains of the world.
We said we would walk forward.
But the road is scarred by what we said to each other.
The things you told me…
They echo.
They make me wish I had never started this at all.
You haven't said a word. And somehow that silence feels louder than any argument.
Maybe you disagree.
Maybe you've already decided I've gone too far.
Maybe you've abandoned me quietly, because confrontation would hurt more than distance.
Or maybe— Maybe you're scared too.
Scared that if you come here, if you look me in the eye and tell me to stop, I'll lash out. That I'll choose the project over you.
The thought makes my chest ache.
Because I don't know if you'd be wrong.
And beneath that is the deeper fear.
That we may never see each other again.
This time— Not because the world tore us apart. But because we chose to let it.
I swallow hard and finally push away from the terminal. The screen continues to glow behind me, lines of code and data flickering like they're impatient with my weakness.
I shouldn't be stagnating.
Not after a discovery like this.
Not after confirming that Tacet Discords carry fragments of human frequencies — that individuality lingers, distorted but present.
This could change everything.
And yet I sit here unraveling over a silence.
The quiet becomes unbearable.
It presses against my ears.
So I look for sound. For anything.
My gaze lands on the cabinet by the wall.
The violin rests there — polished wood catching the sterile light, bow placed carefully beside it.
I step toward it almost unconsciously.
My fingers hover over the neck.
Just one piece, I think.
Just to steady myself.
Music has always untangled the knots inside me.
But I stop.
The memory of yesterday's dream flashes — golden fields, brick paths, Triss's smile, the quill burning warm in my hand.
The violin doesn't belong to this room.
Not like that.
Not for a half-hearted attempt to drown my anxiety.
"…No," I murmur softly.
Music deserves more than desperation.
I let my hand fall.
Maybe I should save it.
For when I have something honest to say.
For when you're here to hear it.
I exhale slowly and glance around my quarters.
Dim overhead lights humming faintly.
I haven't even explored all of Blackshores yet.
For someone so determined to reshape the world, I've barely walked through the place that's funding it.
A faint, humorless smile tugs at my lips.
"Maybe I'll find inspiration," I say to no one. Or distraction. Either would suffice.
I slip on my coat, fingers lingering for a moment at the collar as if bracing myself.
Then I step toward the door.
The corridor outside is long and washed in muted blue light, footsteps echoing softly against reinforced flooring.
I don't know what I'm looking for.
A view of the sea.
A quiet observation deck.
A place where the hum of machines fades and I can pretend, for a moment, that the world isn't balanced on the edge of my decision.
But I know one thing.
If I am going to commit this great crime
If I am going to tear open the boundary between what was and what should remain—
I need to understand why.
And whether I can survive the cost.
Because living on is one thing.
Living on alone—
Is another entirely.
It's late by the time I finally step outside.
The door seals shut behind me with a soft hydraulic hiss, and for a moment I just stand there.
The sun is already sinking.
Gold light spills low across the Blackshores, cutting sharp against the steel walkways and glass structures. It hits my eyes directly, forcing me to raise a hand to shield them. I wince, realizing how long I must've been buried in my quarters for the shift to feel so sudden.
Morning had slipped into afternoon.
Afternoon into evening.
And I hadn't noticed.
"…I really have been cooped up," I murmur to myself.
The air outside is different. Salt-heavy. Cool. The wind carries the distant crash of waves against jagged rock, a constant, restless roar beneath the hum of machinery embedded into the cliffs.
It's soothing in a way I didn't expect.
The light paints everything softer — even this place of research and containment feels almost romantic under a dying sun. Shadows stretch long and thin across the walkways like quiet companions.
This is good.
Atmosphere helps.
If I'm going to write the next piece — if I'm going to refine the composition — I need imagery, direction, something tangible to anchor the swell of it.
He was right. "It lacks direction," he'd said. And I hated that he was right.
But now—
Now I have direction.
Or at least, the beginnings of one.
The data, the theory, the weight of consequence — it all presses forward like a current. I just need to gather as much as I can before doubt comes crawling back in.
Before the silence swallows me again.
I walk slowly along the outer path, hands tucked into my coat sleeves. The concrete under my boots still holds warmth from the day.
I search for something.
A shape.
A sound.
A feeling.
But nothing catches. The observation decks are familiar. The water always looks the same — vast, unrelenting blue. The horizon, endless. The metallic spires, unchanging.
When you've lived long enough, repetition dulls wonder.
You begin to recognize patterns too quickly. Sunsets become statistics.
Waves become background noise.
Even beauty loses its edge.
"…Have I really become that numb?" I ask under my breath. My gaze drifts lazily — and then stops.
There.Near the cliff's edge.
A lone tree stands where the reinforced pathways give way to raw rock and wind-worn soil. It's stubborn and wind-bent, roots gripping into stone as if defying gravity itself.
And hanging from one of its thicker branches—A swing.
Just a simple wooden plank suspended by thick rope. The silhouette cuts against the burning orange sky.
I slow my steps.
"…What?"
Why would there be a swing set here?
Blackshores is not exactly designed for leisure. It's a fortress of research and preparation. Of contingency plans and grim futures.
Not childhood nostalgia.
And certainly not this close to the edge.
The cliff drops steeply beyond the tree — a sheer fall into raging blue below. Waves crash violently against jagged rock, sending mist into the air.
One wrong shift.
One snapped rope.
One miscalculated lean—
And you'd vanish into the sea without a trace.
I fold my arms, studying it. "I don't suppose he decided to turn this place into a daycare," I mutter dryly.
No. That doesn't fit. The swing sways in the wind, creaking softly. Not enough to seem unsafe — just enough to feel alive.
It's absurd.
Who in their right mind would hang a swing here?
And more importantly—
Who would use it?
The thought lingers longer than it should.
Then again…
Maybe the person who built it wasn't in their right mind to begin with.
Maybe it was someone who needed to feel something.
Someone who wanted to sit at the edge of the world and let the wind push them back and forth, suspended between falling and flying.
Someone who needed the reminder that fear and freedom often share the same boundary.
I step closer.
The ropes are thick. Secure. Knotted with deliberate care. The wood of the seat is sanded smooth, worn just slightly at the center.
Used.
So someone does sit here.
Often.
The image forms in my mind uninvited — broad shoulders, steady hands gripping rope, boots brushing against open air as the horizon stretches endlessly ahead.
Would he?
A humorless breath escapes me.
"That would be like you," I whisper.
To build something reckless and call it perspective. I reach out, fingers brushing the rope.
It's warm from the sun. The wind lifts my hair, pulling it across my face as I glance down at the churning sea below.
My pulse quickens. Dangerous and Beautiful. And yet—
For the first time today, something stirs inside me.
Curiosity.
Maybe that's why it's here.
Because when you've lived long enough, when you've seen too much, dulled too many wonders into data points—
You need something that reminds you you're still capable of feeling the edge.
I look at the swing again.
It sways gently, inviting. And for a fleeting second, I consider it.
Just who in their right mind would make it dangle so close to the abyss… and then actually sit on it?
My lips curve faintly.
"…Maybe," I murmur, stepping closer to the cliffside tree, "I'm not entirely in my right mind either."
From afar, the swing had looked simple — rustic, almost sentimental.
Up close, it's…bizarre.
They're intertwined with thick, living vines — dark green and pulsing faintly as if they still draw breath from the tree. The knots are elaborate, almost decorative, but there's something unsettling about them. They don't look engineered.
They look woven and organic. Intentional in a way that has nothing to do with safety.
I circle it slowly, studying the anchor point where vine and rope strangle the branch together.
"I'm no structural designer," I mutter, squinting upward, "but that certainly won't hold."
The wind picks up slightly, and the swing creaks.
If it snapped…
I don't let the thought finish.
My gaze lowers — and that's when I notice them.
Wooden dolls.
Small. Crude. Hand-carved figures hanging from thinner offshoots of vine around the tree. Some are faceless. Some have faint etchings where eyes might be. One is missing an arm.
Another has its head tilted permanently to one side.
They sway gently in the wind.
I frown.
"I don't recall anyone here being fond of carpentry," I murmur.
The rabbit hole deepens.
And so do the footsteps behind me.
"So~" a lilting voice sings, playful as a knife gliding across silk. "How do you like the view? Or were you too bothered by everything else to really let it settle in?"
My spine stiffens.
That voice.
I turn. White twin tails. Braided, immaculate. Eyes too bright, smile too curved — like she's permanently entertained by a joke no one else understands.
Camellya.
She stands a few paces away, hands clasped loosely behind her back, head tilted.
As if she'd been here the entire time.
As if she'd been waiting.
Not that it should matter to me.
She isn't here for idle conversation.
If our first encounter was any indication, she prefers to unsettle and vanish. A gust of wind disguised as a woman.
A breeze sweeps between us. The swing creaks behind me.
Camellya steps forward with it, almost dancing with the wind as though it carries her willingly.
"It's hard to enjoy something," I say evenly, "when you can't stop asking yourself more and more questions."
"Aww~" she pouts exaggeratedly. "Too bad! I've got no answers to any of the ones you're about to ask~"
"Then why are you bothering to stick around?" I fold my arms. "Planning to use this as a jumping board?"
She gasps lightly, mock scandalized. "Ahaha~ You really can't stand being in the dark, can you?"
"Things left unsaid always come back to haunt you," I reply quietly. "It's hard to live when I feel incomplete in the moment."
She studies me for a beat.
Then laughs. "Isn't that the charm though?" She spins once, skirt fluttering. "Do you stop growing just because you didn't get the answer you wanted? Do you stop because something's out of reach?"
Silence hangs between us.
"Ha~ What. A. Downer~" She claps once. "You're such a defeatist! All 'cause what? Too scared to ask the question? Too scared of the answer? Or is it the idea that you can't prove what you signed up for—"
"I can."
The words leave my mouth sharper than intended.
Her smile widens. "Oh? And what's it going to take? Last I checked, life isn't free~"
"If I can sway someone so far that they might give up their chance to save the world…" My voice lowers. "Who's to say I cannot sway death?"
For a moment, the wind dies.
Then she laughs again. Not in mockery but delight. "Ha… Hahaha~ You really are promising!" She wipes an imaginary tear. "Guess I shouldn't have set the bar so high~ I'm not one for half-baked results."
"Just what is this to you?" I demand. "A test?"
"Oh, in all honesty? It basically is~" She shrugs. "But not the kind you think."
"Loyalty. Power. Leverage?"
"Aww~ If I tested those on you, you'd fail spectacularly."
"…Then what?"
She steps closer. Close enough that I can see the faint reflection of the sunset in her eyes.
"Resolve," she says softly. "Obsession. Just how far are you willing to dance on the tightrope for what you want? For what you need?"
"Far enough," I answer, barely hesitating, "that I would even abandon him."
The words feel like they scrape my ribs on the way out.
Her brows lift. "But are you really sure about that?"
"How far do you think I've fallen?"
She leans back slightly, amused. "Deeply~ Almost as far as I have~ But this isn't a competition. It's a test. Now give me your answer."
"I already have—"
"An honest one."
The swing creaks. She brushes past me, skirts grazing my arm, and seats herself on the wooden plank as though it were a throne crafted for her alone. She crosses one leg over the other, idly gripping the vines.
"Go on~"
The ocean roars below.
I stare at her.
At the cliff.
At the dolls swaying like witnesses.
"I want him," I say finally. The words tremble but do not break. "I want to lock him out of his road to peace. To trap him in this turmoil with me. To rest my head on his shoulder and weep — so that I… won't be abandoned again."
The confession feels raw.
Ugly.
"But you'll live," she counters lightly. "Won'tchu?"
"I would but—"
"You'd be miserable," she interrupts. "Miserable but alive."
"And what good is that?"
She leans forward, eyes glinting.
"Because your life is eternal," she says. "This turmoil isn't. Maybe the memory will haunt you. Maybe you'll crumble for a while. But at the end of it?" She taps her temple. "You know you want to live. To see their faces just once more."
The wind surges, lifting her twin tails like white banners.
"So plant your feet," she continues softly. "Steady yourself. There's more to go."
"…And where will you go?" I ask.
She grins.
"Oh, I'll be parting too~ With him, no less. Nothing separates vines that share the same fate."
My breath catches.
Before I can respond, she kicks forward.
The swing surges into motion.
Back.
Forth.
Back.
Higher.
The vines groan.
The dolls rattle against bark.
Her laughter rides the wind.
Then—She leans back too far.
For a split second she is suspended against the burning sky.
Then she falls. White twin tails vanishing past the cliff's edge into the raging blue below.
My body lurches forward instinctively—
But the ocean swallows her without hesitation.
No splash reaches my ears.
Only the wind.
Only the swing, still swaying.
And then—
Her voice.
Behind me.
"Don't be scared to forget~"
I spin around.
No one.
"To live is to remember… and let go~"
The wind dies. The swing slows.
The dolls hang motionless. And I stand at the edge of the world, heart pounding, unsure whether I was just tested—Or warned.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE:
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Hello everyone, feel free to leave your collections, powers, reviews, and comments as you see fit. Now I'm gonna focus on other characters like Aemeath for the sidestories and flesh out their backstories.That's all; thank you for reading this fanfic, and I hope you have a good day.