But one more day became one more week, one more month, one more year.
Kieran existed, but he was fracturing.
He saw Adrian everywhere—in crowds, in shadows, in dreams that blurred into waking hallucinations. Sometimes he'd follow a stranger for hours, convinced it was Adrian reborn, only to realize his mistake when they turned around.
"You need to feed properly," Marcus insisted, watching Kieran push away another glass of blood. "You're weakening yourself to the point of madness."
"Maybe madness would be mercy."
"Kieran—"
"Do you know what the worst part is?" Kieran stared at his hands. "I'm forgetting. Little things at first—the exact shade of his eyes, the precise sound of his laugh. After four hundred years, the memories are fading. And that terrifies me more than anything because soon, all I'll have left of him is pain."
Marcus had no comfort to offer. Memory, even vampire memory, wasn't infallible. Given enough time, even the sharpest recollections dulled.
That night, Kieran found himself in their old bedroom, surrounded by Adrian's belongings. But when he picked up Adrian's favorite shirt, he couldn't remember anymore whether Adrian had worn it the night before he died, or weeks earlier.
The detail was gone. Lost to time.
"I'm sorry," Kieran whispered to the empty room. "I'm forgetting you. I'm trying to hold on, but you're slipping away from me."
His reflection in the mirror showed a stranger—hollow eyes, gaunt features, an expression of such profound grief it was almost inhuman.
He'd become a ghost. A remnant of the vampire he'd once been.
And somewhere in the fog of his mind, he wondered: if Adrian's soul did return, would Kieran even recognize him? Or had he become too damaged, too broken, to see clearly anymore?