The silence after the fire was unbearable.
For a long time, I sat among the ashes, unable to move. My lungs still burned from the smoke, my hands still trembled from the heat that wasn't really there. The wind whispered through the remains of the house, stirring bits of charred paper and broken glass.
Everything smelled like the end of something.
And then, through the quiet, I heard her voice.
"Hey."
It was soft, almost uncertain—like she wasn't sure I'd answer.
I looked up.
She stood there, not glowing this time, not fading, not flickering. Just there. The same Emma I remembered from before the fire—the one with hair that caught sunlight and eyes that made me forget to breathe.
But she wasn't pretending now. No illusions, no tricks. Just truth.
"Emma," I whispered.
She smiled, the kind of smile that still made my chest ache. "You finally woke up."
For a long while, neither of us said anything. The night stretched wide around us—black sky, silver moon, the quiet hum of dying embers.
I wanted to say a thousand things, but every word felt too heavy. So I said the only one that mattered.
"I'm sorry."
She walked closer, her bare feet leaving no trace in the ash. "I know."
"I tried to save you," I said, voice cracking. "God, I tried."
"I know that too."
I looked away, jaw tightening. "But I didn't. I froze. I—"
"You didn't freeze," she interrupted softly. "You fought. You just… couldn't win."
Her voice trembled then, full of old pain, not for herself but for me.
"You've been punishing yourself for something that wasn't yours to fix," she said. "And I tried to reach you, to pull you out of that loop, but you kept dragging me back in."
I swallowed hard. "Because I couldn't let you go."
She gave a small nod. "I know."
There was no judgment in her voice. Only sadness. And something gentler—something like love that had finally learned how to stop hurting.
The night wind blew through the ruins. A single ember drifted between us, glowing faintly before dying midair.
Emma sat down beside me, her presence warm but not solid. The way a dream feels right before you wake.
"I didn't want to leave," she said quietly. "Not you. Not us. I thought if I stayed, maybe you'd be okay."
I turned to her. "You stayed because of me?"
She smiled faintly. "Of course. But you wouldn't listen. You built walls around yourself—dreams, memories, the perfect life that never burned. You trapped both of us in it."
Her hand brushed my arm, and though it felt like nothing, the gesture nearly broke me.
"I thought if I could just love you enough," I whispered, "I could make it real again."
Her eyes softened. "You did love me enough. You always did. But love doesn't stop fire, Nathan. It doesn't unmake the world."
A long pause. The sound of the wind through the wreckage.
Then she said, "What happened that night—it wasn't your fault."
"I left the candle burning."
"Yes," she said. "But I was the one who fell asleep near it."
"That doesn't matter."
"It does."
Her tone sharpened slightly—gentle but firm, like she wanted the truth to cut through the fog that had ruled my mind for years.
"I made mistakes too," she continued. "We both did. But we loved each other. That was real. And now you have to stop reliving the end."
I looked down at my hands—blackened, shaking, empty.
"I don't know how," I admitted. "If I let go, then what's left?"
She smiled sadly. "You."
I laughed weakly. "That's not much."
"It's enough," she said. "You just don't believe it yet."
Her gaze lifted toward the sky. "You've been living in this half-world for so long, Nathan. Between what's gone and what's real. It's time to step out of it."
"Into what?"
"Whatever comes next."
"I'm afraid," I said.
"I know," she whispered. "But I'll be with you until you're ready."
We sat together for what felt like hours. The fire was gone, but warmth lingered in her presence. It wasn't physical—it was something deeper. The kind of warmth that lived in memory, in forgiveness.
At one point, I looked at her and said, "You know, I used to think I hated red because of that night."
She tilted her head, curious.
"But I don't think that's true anymore," I said. "I think I hated it because it reminded me of how alive you were. How much light you had in you. And how much of it I lost."
Her eyes shimmered. "You didn't lose it. You just forgot how to see it."
I smiled faintly. "You always had a way of making everything sound simple."
She nudged me gently. "That's because it is. You just complicate things."
We both laughed—quietly, painfully. But it was real laughter, the kind we hadn't shared in what felt like lifetimes.
As the night deepened, her edges began to fade—slowly at first, like mist burning off under morning light.
I felt my throat tighten. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
She nodded. "You don't need me here anymore."
"I'll always need you."
She smiled. "Then I'll always be with you. Just not like this."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "Emma—"
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to my forehead. The touch was cold and warm all at once—real and not real, like the memory of sunlight.
When she pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper.
"Live, Nathan. Please. Live for both of us."
And then she was gone.
The ruins around me were silent again. No fire, no voices. Just moonlight and the faint crackle of settling wood.
I sat there until the first light of dawn touched the horizon.
For the first time in years, I wasn't afraid of it.
I stood, took one last look at the remains of the house, and whispered, "Thank you."
The wind carried the words into the trees, into the quiet, into whatever lay beyond.
And somewhere in that silence, I thought I heard her laugh—soft, fading, free.