i have died everyday waiting for you
The air warmed, golden light bleeding into the dusk, wrapping around Remi like the quiet hum of a familiar lullaby. And then, as naturally as the tide itself, Mort stepped onto the shoreline, barefoot, curls tousled by the salt-laced wind. He smiled as he always did—boyish, bright, endlessly kind—but there was something solemn in his gaze, something knowing. In his hands, delicate yet unwavering, he held a rose. It was not just any rose, but Vi’s rose—pale as first light, the edges of its petals kissed with the softest flush of gold.
"You’ve done all that I asked," Mort murmured, his voice gentle but steady as he stepped closer. "And Vi has given his answer."
He lifted the rose slightly, letting the weight of the moment settle between them before tilting his head. "You already know what must be done," he continued, his fingers brushing the petals before turning the bloom just enough to reveal the thorns along its stem. "Like with the Blight, Ronin must be pricked by one of these." His gaze flickered over Remi’s face, taking in every trace of tension, of exhaustion, of hope too fragile to hold comfortably.
"This will heal him," Mort promised, voice quiet but firm. "But it will not erase everything that has come before. He will still remember. He will still be changed by what has happened." His dimples deepened as his smile turned bittersweet. "You know better than anyone—healing isn’t the same as forgetting."
Carefully, reverently, Mort extended the rose toward Remi, the golden light around them shifting like something alive.
"You’ve done all that I asked," Mort murmured, his voice gentle but steady as he stepped closer. "And Vi has given his answer."
He lifted the rose slightly, letting the weight of the moment settle between them before tilting his head. "You already know what must be done," he continued, his fingers brushing the petals before turning the bloom just enough to reveal the thorns along its stem. "Like with the Blight, Ronin must be pricked by one of these." His gaze flickered over Remi’s face, taking in every trace of tension, of exhaustion, of hope too fragile to hold comfortably.
"This will heal him," Mort promised, voice quiet but firm. "But it will not erase everything that has come before. He will still remember. He will still be changed by what has happened." His dimples deepened as his smile turned bittersweet. "You know better than anyone—healing isn’t the same as forgetting."
Carefully, reverently, Mort extended the rose toward Remi, the golden light around them shifting like something alive.
