Aric POV

  I’ve lost everything. Everything I once called mine has been reduced to ash and silence. My home is a bckened skeleton against the sky, my belongings nothing but charred memories. And the worst of it, my beloved, the one who gave my life meaning and purpose, was taken from me in the cruellest way. My one and only, the person who held my heart and soul as if they were fragile things to be treasured, is gone. My love, the reason I woke each morning, my Annabelle, the center of my universe, the light that guided me through the darkest times. The void she left is a thing that eats at me from the inside; it swallows sound and thought and leaves me wandering through the wreckage of my life, hollow and alone. What is left to care about when the axis of my world has been ripped away?

  I stare at her, crumpled and still on the ground. The truth nds on me like a physical blow: by my hand, she lost her life. By my hand, she lost her youth. By my hand, I took everything from her. The thought is a cold, relentless tide. What right had I to keep standing while she y cold on the earth? By what right do I still breathe when the one I was sworn to protect is gone? The anger that had burned so hot inside me melts into something worse: a numbness that spreads through my limbs and settles behind my eyes. It is not peace. It is not relief. It is a hollow, a silence that answers every question with nothing.

  What am I without her?

  I colpse to my knees beside her, the ground hard and unforgiving beneath me. I move her from the stranger’s embrace and let her lie against my chest, still kneeling, as if proximity could stitch together what I have torn apart. The first thing I feel is cold, an absolute, bone-deep cold that steals the warmth from my hands. Her skin is like porcein; the life that once warmed it is gone. I had not noticed the tears until they fell, hot and shameful, nding on her cheek and leaving dark tracks through the ash. I wipe them away quickly, clumsy and ashamed. She does not deserve pity from her murderer. She does not deserve the soft, useless mercy of my tears. She deserved better than me.

  Guilt is a physical thing. It sits on my shoulders like a weight, pressing on my chest until breathing is borious. My hands shake as I touch her hair, as if even the gentlest movement might erase what remains. I think of all the small mercies I denied her and how those denials stacked into the catastrophe that stands between us now. I think of the way I justified myself, the stories I told to make the violence feel inevitable, and I hate the man who told those stories. I hate him with a crity that is almost clean. Around us, the world is a ruin of sound and light. The house groans and colpses in distant, terrible beats. Sparks drift like dying stars, and the smoke tastes of iron and old wood. Voices are far away, muffled by the roar of the fmes and the ringing in my ears. Time has lost its shape; minutes stretch and fold until everything is a single, unbearable present. I press my forehead to hers, feeling the cool of her skin against my brow, and I whisper apologies that mean nothing now. The words are small and useless, but they are all I have to offer.

  I should fall on the ground and let the earth take me. I should answer for what I have done. The thought passes through me like a bde and then recedes, not because I am brave but because I am stunned, too stunned to move, too stunned to choose. The numbness holds me in pce, a terrible mercy that keeps me from colpsing entirely. I am left with the raw, simple facts: she is gone; I am the cause. The rest is noise. I cradle her as if my arms could be a shelter from the consequences of my own hands. I trace the line of her jaw, the slope of her cheek, the pce where a ugh used to live. I remember the small, ordinary things that made her human and irrepceable. I remember the way she said my name like it was a promise. I remember the way she trusted me to be better.

  There is no absolution here. There is only the slow, grinding realization that nothing I do from this moment on can bring her back. The future I built in my head colpses with the house; every pn, every hope, every petty grievance that once seemed so important is reduced to ash. I am left with the weight of what I have taken and the emptiness of what remains. I do not know how to live in a world where she is not the center. I do not know how to stand when the one person I was meant to protect lies cold beneath my hands. All I know is the ache, the shame, the relentless repy of the moment that changed everything. I hold her tighter, not because it will help, but because it is the only thing that keeps me tethered to the st piece of her that is still within reach.

  Now...I’m empty.

  I look for a moment at the knife still in my hands. The bde was covered completely in blood. The blood of two people stained what used to be bright silver. The weight of the knife feels heavier now, burdened with the memories of the lives it has taken. My grip tightens involuntarily, as if trying to hold onto the st remnants of my sanity. But who was I kidding? I have no sanity left over. Every bit of who I am died with her.

  I’m empty.

  I look down at Annabelle, lying cold and still in my arms, and my chest caves in on itself. The ache is physical, a hollowing that steals the air from my lungs; every breath tastes of ash and iron. What have I done? The question circles me, relentless, until it becomes the only sound that matters. Why her? Why not me? The thought is not a pn but a raw, stunned plea that echoes through the ruin of everything we were. I gnce at the knife in my hand, its edge catching the firelight like a small, accusing star. A resolute idea forms and then dissolves under the weight of memory.

  “Let me at least y you down in a peaceful pce,” I whisper, my voice a thread of sorrow. I lift her with hands that tremble, cradling her as if the motion could fool the world into believing she still breathes.

  Each step away from the house is a march through a waking nightmare. The charred skeleton of our home groans behind me; embers drift like dying fireflies, and the heat presses at my back as if trying to shove me back into the fmes. I force my feet to move, forcing myself past the bckened beams and the scattered remnants of a life we pnned together. The match that started it all seems absurd now, but the ruin it left is absolute.

  We had built the house close to the woods on purpose, a private border between the life we made and the wildness that had watched us fall in love. I remember the first time we walked into those trees, how the light snted through the leaves, and she reached for my hand like it was the only safe thing in the world. That memory is a knife that twists in me now. What does it matter, I think, when the pce that held our vows is ash, and her body is cold in my arms? The question has no answer, only the slow, grinding knowledge that nothing will ever be the same. At the edge of the trees, I find a small clearing, a patch of earth where wildflowers used to nod in the breeze. The grass is singed at the edges, but a few stubborn blooms remain, pale and trembling. I y her down there, gently, as if setting a sleeping child to rest. The ground is cool beneath her, and for a moment the world narrows to the small, terrible details: the line of her jaw, the way her shes rest against her cheek, the faint smear of ash at the corner of her mouth. I press my forehead to hers, and the cold meets my skin like a verdict.

  Tears come without permission. I wipe them away quickly, ashamed of their softness, of the way they fall on the woman I killed. She doesn’t deserve pity from her murderer, I tell myself, but the words are brittle and useless. Guilt is a living thing that sits heavy on my shoulders; it makes my hands clumsy and my thoughts jagged. I repy the moment over and over, and each repy strips another yer from me until I am raw and exposed.

  Around us, the night is full of sound: the distant crack of colpsing timber, the hiss of embers, the low, confused murmur of people far away. But in the clearing, there is a terrible, intimate silence. I sit back on my heels and fold my hands over her, as if my body could be a shield against the consequence of my own hands. I do not know what comes next. I do not know how to live in a world where she is gone, where the center of my life has been taken by my own violence. All I know is the weight of her in my arms and the hollow that follows every breath.

  Empty

  I keep walking, tracing my steps from that day. Her soft smile as she expectantly followed me through these woods. The sunlight was peeking through the leaves and casting a soft glow on her skin. Each step is a painful reminder of the beauty that I lost. I can barely stand with the overwhelming sense of loss that rushes through my body. The rustling leaves seem to whisper her name, and I can’t help but remember the sound of her ughter, but her cold skin repces all warmth with a feeling of instant dread. I smile wistfully. I reached the clearing, and I looked up at the clear night sky. Why did the rest of the world deserve to be in peace when my heart is tearing itself apart? When my beloved lies cold in my arms.

  The tree still stands at the center of the clearing. But now it looks gnarled, gloomy, and withering. In the sunlight, everything looked so beautiful. It looked perfect. Or maybe it was Annabelle who made my world a bit clearer than it truly was. Maybe we were living in our own little world. I find a quiet spot beneath the rge, ancient tree, its branches providing a canopy of soce. Carefully, I y Annabelle down, arranging her as if she were merely sleeping. I wanted to bring her here in hopes that maybe she can leave in peace, knowing that her body is somewhere that used to bring her happiness. I wouldn’t know where else to keep her.

  Maybe I was selfish to bring her here. I wanted a pce that belonged only to us, a pocket of the world where nothing could intrude on what we had. Was that unfair? Maybe. She probably never wants my name near hers again. Why would she? Why would she keep loving the man who destroyed her life? And yet I needed this, needed her close, needed the illusion that she might stay. I wanted her to be by my side forever. I told myself I would prove I was worth forgiveness, no matter what it took. I would stay by your side, my love. Forever.

  The knife in my hand was a cold, blunt truth. Blood darkened the bde and stained my palm; it was an obvious reminder of the hatred that had driven me to this point. My hatred. I didn’t deserve her, and still some selfish part of me clung to her as if possession could undo what I had done. “I’ll prove it,” I told the quiet night, the words a promise and a plea. “I’ll prove it to you.”

  I pressed my forehead to hers, and the world narrowed to the small, terrible details: the ash at the corner of her mouth, the way her shes y like a shadow, the faint tremor of a hand that no longer moved. I whispered the vows I had once meant, every lifetime, every heartbeat, and the words felt both true and useless. Since she left me first, my world had lost its light. I had no choice but to follow, I told myself, to find her wherever she might be and keep my promise beyond this life.

  The metal at my throat was not a comfort. The warm, metallic pressure was a blunt, final punctuation to everything I had become. Blood spread, a slow, terrible map across my fingers and down my wrist. The sight of it made the world tilt; the sound of my own breath was thin and distant. “I’ll find you,” I whispered, voice thick and breaking, the words gurgled with the blood that filled my mouth. Even if I have to tear through the veil between worlds. Even if I have to walk through fire and shadow. I’ll find you.

  I fell to my knees at her feet because that was where I belonged; there was nowhere else to go. I pressed my hands to the earth and to her, begging for a forgiveness I had no right to ask for. The night held us: the ruined house behind, the singed clearing before, and the small, stubborn life that was all that remained of us. “I’m sorry,” I said, over and over, until the word was the only thing left that fit in my mouth.

  I’m sorry.