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The night was cold—cold like death. Shadows stretched across the room, choking the space as if trying to steal his last breath. Icarus sat on the floor, barefoot, clutching a letter from Nila—a letter he had found by chance between old notebooks. One she had written years ago but never sent.
She had apologized, her words trembling with tears inked on paper:
"I'm sorry... I never meant to hide how much I loved you, or how important you were to me. I truly loved you, and my heart never healed from you."
He read it over and over again, as if it held the last heartbeat the world could offer him.
But before he could even let its warmth settle, another paper slipped out from between the pages—sealed with an old ribbon, in handwriting he knew too well.
His mother's.
He opened it with trembling hands and a racing heart.
> "Icarus, my little one...
If you're reading this, I may already be gone.
But I need you to know the truth.
I fell ill, but it wasn't just any illness. I was taking medicine prescribed by your father... and later, I discovered it wasn't meant to heal me, but to slowly wear me down.
He knew.
And he meant for it to happen.
When I stopped taking it, I began to feel better—but by then, it was already too late.
I knew death was coming from within.
But I never wanted you to carry this burden. I never wanted you to hate him, even after everything.
Forgive him, if you can...
And if you can't—
Forgive yourself for everything that happens after me.
I love you, no matter how long I'm gone."
The letter fell from his hands.
He kept staring into the void—
as if the air had thickened,
as if the whole world had betrayed him.
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