He found her where he always did when the world wanted to pretend it was kind: in the garden, on the stone bench, the swing moving without wind. The sky had finally learned a new colour after days of staying the same.
She saw the thin book in his hand and his empty one where the key had been. She stood, not smiling, not bracing, just present in the way all anchors are.
"It wasn't my fault," he said, testing the sentence like a bridge he didn't trust.
"It wasn't yours," she said. "It wasn't even theirs, not the way you need it to be. Belief can be a weapon. They used it on you and called it love."
He sat. The bench was cold through his clothes. The air smelled like rain that would never arrive.
"I don't know what to do with forgiveness," he said.
"You don't have to do anything with it," she said. "Forgiveness is a future word. You don't have a future. You have a choice."
They watched the swing's slow arc. For once it made a sound—a small, animal sigh.
He turned to her. "What are you, really?"
"Someone the story uses to keep you from drowning," she said. "And someone who didn't want to be used that way. Both can be true."
"You'll disappear when I'm done."
"So will you," she said gently. "But I'll remember you for as long as I'm allowed."
He didn't know where to put that tenderness. He set it carefully between them, then stood, the thin book under his arm heavy as a verdict.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" she asked.
"For meeting me even when I didn't know I'd already met you."
This time she smiled. "Go."
He did.