The wind battered against the windows of his office.
The snow had started falling again, heavy, slow, persistent, as if even the sky wanted to smother the world under a veil of white.
Sylus had hardly slept.
His eyes were red, his features drawn.
On his desk, the coffee had long since gone cold, forgotten between two open files.
Nothing was getting done. Not a single line, not a single number.
His mind refused to obey.
When Damien entered without knocking, he barely looked up.
"You don't look well, sir," said the assistant in a tone that mingled respect and concern.
"I haven't been sleeping much lately."
Damien set down a file and lingered for a moment.
He hesitated. Then, in a lower voice:
"It's because of her, isn't it?"
Sylus slowly raised his head.
His gaze, usually so cold, had something raw about it.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Catarina."
Silence fell, cutting the air in two.
Sylus looked away, toward the snow falling outside.
"You were supposed to spend Christmas with your family," he said finally.
"I came back early. Althea told me she had been here. That she had invited her."
"It was... a mistake."
Damien sat down on the edge of the desk, staring at him calmly.
"This isn't the first time you've said that. But this time, I find it hard to believe."
Sylus gave a short, almost bitter laugh.
"Because you still believe that mistakes don't repeat themselves?"
Damien remained silent.
He had known this man long enough to recognize when the mask was beginning to crack.
"You love her," he said simply.
"Don't say that."
"Why? Because it's true?"
Sylus stood up abruptly and took a few steps toward the window.
His hands were shaking slightly.
"That word... it destroys everything it touches."
"No, Damien replied softly. It's not love that destroys. It's fear."
Sylus froze.
"Do you think I didn't try? Do you think I didn't want to stop before it was too late?"
"Then why didn't you?"
He turned slowly.
"Because she reminded me of something I had forgotten: that I was alive."
Damien looked at him for a long time, saying nothing.
Silence again.
Then, calmly:
"You know what she meant to you. But you forgot to think about what she meant to her."
Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"She didn't deserve that."
"No, Damien agreed. But she wasn't innocent either."
The sentence hung in the air.
Sylus opened his eyes again, a little surprised.
"What do you mean?"
"That she knew. From the beginning. She knew it was dangerous. And she went ahead anyway."
"So it's half my fault," Sylus murmured.
"No. It's entirely your fault. Because you were the only adult in the story."
The sentence cut sharply.
But Sylus didn't answer.
He knew he was right.
He sat up slowly, his gaze empty.
"Do you think time will fix things?"
Damien sighed.
"Time doesn't fix anything. It just buries the bodies better."
Sylus smiled faintly.
"That's poetic, for a man who never believed in anything."
"I did believe, Damien replied, standing up. Until I saw you love someone you shouldn't have."
He was about to leave, but stopped at the door.
"You should leave her alone now. For good."
Sylus didn't answer.
Damien left, closing the door behind him.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Sylus remained alone, facing the snow, with that sentence running through his head:
"Because she brought me back to life."
And he wondered, without daring to answer,
if life was still worth living now that she was gone.