The morning came soft and golden, just like every morning before it. The light through the curtains felt like silk, the kind that draped over a dream you never wanted to wake from.
Emma was already up. I could hear her humming in the kitchen, that same tune she used to hum when we first moved in together. I couldn't name it, but I knew every note—it was the sound of calm, of safety, of home.
When I walked in, she turned, smiling like sunlight itself.
"You sleep okay?" she asked, eyes bright, as if the night before hadn't happened—no tears, no fire, no breaking of worlds.
"Yeah," I lied softly. "You?"
"Always," she said, sliding a cup of coffee toward me. "As long as you're here."
I smiled back, because what else could I do? Because in this place, in this moment, she was alive—and so was I.
We spent the day like we had a hundred times before. Reading by the window. Sharing small jokes that didn't need to be funny to make us laugh. Every movement, every word, fell perfectly into place, like we'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Sometimes, she'd glance at me like she was memorizing my face all over again. Sometimes, I'd reach for her hand just to feel that familiar warmth.
It wasn't just love. It was gravity.
The pull of something that refused to let go.
I'd never known peace like this—not in years, not since before the flames. The house hummed with a quiet rhythm, like it wanted us to believe in forever.
That night, rain whispered against the roof. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and her perfume. We sat close by the fire—her head resting against my chest, my hand tracing the curve of her shoulder.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then she lifted her eyes to me, and in that silence, I forgot everything that had come before—the guilt, the loss, the ache. There was only her.
The warmth between us deepened, slow and natural, as if the universe itself paused to let us remember what it felt like to be whole.
And when she kissed me, it wasn't desperate or fiery; it was familiar. A return. A promise.
The world dimmed to nothing but the sound of rain, her breath, and the faint crackle of fire.
When it was over, she lay against me, quiet and soft, tracing circles on my chest with her finger.
"I missed this," she whispered.
"Me too."
For a while, we said nothing more. Just breathed. Just were.
Later, when she'd drifted off beside me, I lay awake, watching the glow of the fire dance across the ceiling.
Every part of me felt full—heart, mind, body. But beneath that fullness, a hollow ache stirred, like something deep inside me knew this wasn't real.
I didn't want to believe it.
How could something this perfect be false? How could warmth feel so true if it was born from illusion?
I turned to look at her. The way her lashes brushed her cheeks. The faint rise and fall of her chest. She looked alive—too alive.
I reached out and brushed her hair from her face. She smiled faintly in her sleep.
And that's when I remembered why I couldn't let her go.
Because she wasn't just someone I loved.
She was the proof that I'd once been capable of loving.
She'd been the reason I became more than what I was—the broken, distant man who'd once thought he didn't deserve anyone.
Before her, my world had been gray.
She'd brought color to it.
Even red.
She'd teased me once about that—how I couldn't stand the color. She wore red just to annoy me at first: a scarf, a pair of shoes, lipstick that made my heart stutter. She'd say, "You don't hate red, Nathan. You just don't understand it yet."
Maybe she was right. Maybe I never did.
Now, lying beside her again, the soft glow of the fire painting everything in shades of red and gold, I realized—red wasn't the color of hate or blood or pain. It was the color of her warmth, her pulse, the life she'd given to mine.
And maybe that's why I could never let go.
Because letting go meant losing that warmth forever.
When I finally drifted toward sleep, I dreamed of that night again—not the fire, not the horror. Just the quiet before it.
Emma laughing, her hand brushing mine. The smell of rain through the open window. The red gloves resting on the table, untouched.
Her saying, "Promise me you'll always find your way back."
And me saying, "Always."
When I woke, the bed beside me was warm, the curtains swayed in a gentle breeze, and Emma stood at the window, looking out into the endless twilight.
Her shoulders trembled.
I almost called her name, but stopped when I heard her whisper—soft, like a prayer not meant for me.
"Please, Nathan. Wake up."
Then she turned, smiling, bright and effortless again. "Coffee?"
And the loop began anew.