The forest was quieter now. As if even the trees mourned.
Aria stood alone beneath the old firelight tree, where leaves never burned but always glowed. It had once been their place—hers and Elian's. The roots had wrapped around their first promises, the bark had hidden secret carvings of their names, and the canopy had caught the echoes of laughter that no longer belonged to this world.
Now the glow felt colder. Distant.
She ran her fingers along the initials they had carved long ago: A & E. The letters were still there, though time had begun to wear them down. Much like her heart.
"I thought I'd feel something more," she whispered to the wind. "But it's just... quiet."
From somewhere nearby, a bird called once and fell silent.
She closed her eyes.
Elian's smile appeared in the darkness behind her eyelids—not the memory of his final smile, faded and soft, but the one from their first spring together. That smile had been sunlight. That smile had stayed with her, even when his voice no longer did.
A breeze stirred her hair, and in that moment, the scent of wildflowers wrapped around her like his old cloak.
She didn't cry. Not anymore. The tears had dried like rain in summer. But her chest ached with something deeper. A longing. A question.
Why do memories stay when the people in them leave?
Behind her, soft footsteps crunched leaves. She didn't turn.
"I thought I'd find you here," said a gentle voice.
Amaris.
Aria glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "You always do."
Amaris stepped forward, wrapped in a blue shawl that shimmered like moonlight. Her hair was braided with ivy and thistle, signs of the healing path she'd chosen since Elian's departure. But her eyes—green like deep forest moss—held sadness still.
"You remember everything," Amaris said. "Don't you?"
Aria nodded slowly. "Every word. Every silence. Every almost."
They sat together at the base of the firelight tree, shoulders nearly touching. Neither spoke for a while.
Amaris finally broke the silence. "I still see him, in my dreams. But he never says anything."
"That's because he left his words with us," Aria whispered. "And we never stopped listening."
Amaris looked down at her hands. "Does it ever feel like you're forgetting him, though? Just a little? Like... the sound of his laugh? The exact shape of his walk?"
Aria's throat tightened. She stared at the sky through the leaves.
"No," she said. "Because I gave part of myself to hold onto it."
Amaris turned toward her. "What do you mean?"
Aria hesitated. Then, slowly, she unwrapped the chain around her neck. It was the pendant Elian had made for her—a piece of hollow stone, shaped like a tear, with a strand of his hair sealed inside. Magic pulsed faintly within it.
"He put memory magic in this," she said softly. "A small spell. It stores pieces of him... little things. His favorite song. The way he hummed when nervous. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching."
Amaris touched the stone gently. "He gave you that before...?"
"The day before he went into the Wilds," Aria said. "He knew. I think he knew he wouldn't return."
Silence again. Not empty, but full—of everything unsaid, everything shared.
"I envy you," Amaris whispered. "I envy that he chose to leave something behind... with you."
Aria's grip tightened on the pendant. "It doesn't make it easier."
"No," Amaris agreed. "But maybe it makes it bearable."
The firelight above them flickered gently, casting gold patterns across their faces.
"You should take it," Aria said suddenly, offering the pendant.
Amaris blinked. "What?"
"He mattered to you too. He loved us both in different ways. You should carry some of his memory too."
Amaris stared at her, stunned. "But... it's yours. You were his heart."
"And you were his soul," Aria said firmly. "He told me once. He said, 'Aria is my flame. Amaris is my breath.' I didn't understand it then. But I do now."
Amaris's lips trembled. She took the pendant slowly, as if afraid it would vanish. She pressed it to her chest.
"I'll return it."
"No," Aria said. "Keep it. We both need to remember him, in different ways."
The forest shifted gently around them, as if listening. As if approving.
They sat that way until the stars began to blink overhead. Two girls wrapped in silence and memory. Two hearts learning how to hold pain without breaking.
Finally, Aria rose.
"I have to go," she said. "The glade needs tending, and the ivy's blooming early this year."
Amaris stood too. "Will I see you tomorrow?"
"Yes," Aria said with a small smile. "And the next day. And the next. Just... not in the old ways."
They didn't hug. They didn't cry. They simply stood there, in the hush of the firelight tree, before parting in opposite directions.
As Aria walked away, the wind whispered behind her.
She didn't turn back.
Because she knew.
Some goodbyes stayed. But so did the memories.
And those, sometimes, were enough.