YEARS SLIPPED BY like soft winds over the cliffs of Therslomau Isle. The sea that once swallowed her nightmares now cradled them. And on this quiet island, tucked between the folds of mist and salt, Whitlock's Academy stood tall.
I've always liked the idea of permanence, the kind that refuses to fade even when time insists on changing everything. That's why, when I began rebuilding the academy, I chose a Victorian style. It wasn't about grandeur or beauty, not really. It was about memory. The arches, the tall windows, the dark wood, the wrought-iron details—everything about it felt like something that would last. Like something that could hold both grief and hope without collapsing under their weight.
I wanted the halls to echo with the kind of quiet that reminded me of Willowmere before the fire. The way laughter used to drift from the study rooms, the way the piano in the east wing would hum late at night when Harriet couldn't sleep. Every brick I chose was a way of saying, 'we were here once.'
Maybe it's selfish, wanting to build something that looks backward when the world keeps moving forward. But the academy isn't just a place for gifted beings: it's a promise. A reminder that out of ruin, something gentle can still stand. Something that endures, even when everything else burns away.
And as for the Others, every time I close my eyes, I see their shadows. The men in black.
That's what I call them now. Not Others. Not soldiers. Not even their organization's name, CYGNUS.
Just men in black.
Because to me, they were never people. They were voids — empty silhouettes that swallowed everything bright.
It's easier that way. To call them something distant. Something shapeless. Because if I called them by what they truly were — the Others — then maybe I'd have to admit that monsters don't always come with fangs or fire. Sometimes, they wear uniforms.
Anyway, when I built the academy, I made sure no one could find it unless they were meant to. A sanctuary for those like us, the gifted. A place untouched by fear, by men in black uniforms, by the ghosts that once chased us through smoke and ruin.
The gold bars my father left me had long been spent into beams and walls to build the foundation of this academy. I remember holding them with shaking hands, knowing they were my last tie to him—to a world before Willowmere burned, before I learned that love could be both a gift and a wound. Now, years later, the academy thrived. The laughter of children replaced the echo of explosions that haunted my dreams. I walked its corridors every morning, watching the students learn to control what once controlled them.
Billy was one of the first, a red-haired boy who could summon flame from his fingertips. He burned everything he touched at first: paper, wood, even his own shoes. But when he finally managed to conjure a steady flame to light the lanterns in the dining hall, he'd grinned so wide it almost split his face.
Then there was Suzie, a gifted girl with skin pale as milk and lashes white as the first snow. She never spoke above a whisper. But whenever she passed by the garden, the air grew cooler, calmer, as though the world bowed to her quiet.
And Mamori Tanakuchi, the first I ever rescued. The day I found her, she had been hiding under a bridge, shivering, surrounded by puddles that moved as if alive. I remember kneeling, telling her my name softly, promising her that she didn't have to hide anymore. She didn't believe me then. But she does now.
Sometimes, when I stand by the balcony overlooking the courtyard, I see them together—laughing, learning, living. And I think maybe this—this peace—is what Ryan dreamed of all along.
Additionally, I used to love pastels. The soft lilacs, the quiet creams, the blush pinks that made everything feel light and harmless, like the world was still kind enough to color itself softly. My wardrobe was once full of them. Every dress hung like a piece of who I thought I was. But now, when I opened my dresser, they looked… wrong.
It wasn't that I stopped liking color—it was that color didn't fit anymore. The world had changed. I had changed. And there was something in me that couldn't bear to wear sweetness when everything around me felt carved out and raw.
So I reached for black. Not because it was simple, or cold, but because it felt honest. Because grief didn't come in lavender or powder blue. It came in shadows that swallowed the light and still dared to stand.
I thought of Harriet when I buttoned the dress. She always wore black. People mistook it for darkness. I think, now, it was her armor. Maybe that's why I chose it too. Not to vanish. But to remember that I'm still standing. And to mourn for those who passed during the bombing of Willowmere.
Pastel dresses belonged to the Alice who believed peace lasted forever.
Black belonged to the one who knew it didn't, but chose to fight for it anyway.
Outside, the sky mirrored that truth. I sat alone in my study, surrounded by the quiet hum of memory and the faint scent of old paper, and reached for the wooden box I had kept locked for so many years. Inside were the remains of a life I no longer lived—photographs, letters, fragments of a world that burned away in one night.
I touched each one gently, afraid they'd crumble under my fingers. There was one of Miss Byrd in her apron, scolding Morgan for drawing on the walls. Another of Dwight carrying Harriet's bag while pretending not to care. And then the group photo: Ryan's idea, before everything ended. We stood outside Willowmere that day, all of us smiling though none of us truly felt it.
My hand stilled when I reached the last photo, and it broke my heart. It was of Riven, standing a little apart from the rest. That same crooked smile I knew too well curved his lips. I could almost hear his laugh again—low, warm, and exasperating.
The ache returned like it always did. I pressed the photograph to my chest, the edges trembling against my heartbeat.
The photograph felt worn beneath my fingertips—edges soft, the paper thinned from years of being touched and folded, over and over. The faces inside it had already begun to fade, their smiles half-lost to time, yet the weight it carried never lessened. My reflection shimmered faintly in the glass of the frame—older now, the same eyes, but different somehow. I pressed the picture to my heart, feeling the slow ache behind my ribs rise like an echo.
"I still don't know if you're out there," I whispered. My voice barely rose above the hush of the morning wind threading through the cracks in the window. "But if you are… I hope you're safe."
For a moment, I stood there—motionless, listening to the quiet hum of the home around me. Blinking away the blur in my eyes, I turned toward the hearth. "Come on, Hunter," I said softly, forcing a small smile. "Breakfast time."
The words felt habitual, something I'd said a thousand mornings before. But today, the silence that followed felt unusual. The fire had long gone cold, and the old rug near the fireplace lay untouched.
"Hunter?" I called again, setting the bowl of food on the floor.
No sound of nails clicking against the floorboards. No low woof of greeting.
I left the bowl and stepped outside, wrapping my shawl tightly around me. The morning air was cool, mist curling low over the fields. The willow tree near the river swayed gently with its branches heavy with dew. And few meters beyond it, I saw the dog.
At first, I thought he was sleeping.
"Hunter," I said, relief breaking through the tightness in my chest. I walked faster, the grass wet beneath my feet.
He didn't move.
I slowed as I approached, my steps faltering. He was lying on his side, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His fur had grayed more than I remembered with patches of silver around his muzzle and paws. The wind brushed his ears, and his tail gave the faintest twitch, three small wags.
My throat closed. "Hey," I whispered, kneeling beside him. The dampness from the grass seeped through my clothes, but I didn't care. I placed my trembling hand on his back. His fur was still warm, the steady rhythm beneath it faint but real. "You waited, didn't you?"
His eyes flicked open, the same eyes that had watched over me since the beginning.
"You always waited," I said. My voice cracked as I stroked his head, my fingers tracing the ridges of age on his face.
Hunter exhaled slowly, a long, trembling sigh that almost sounded like a word.
I smiled through my tears. "You were supposed to outlive us all, you know."
He gave another weak wag of his tail, and then… stillness.
The world seemed to pause with him. The wind stopped moving. Even the rustle of the leaves quieted, like nature itself held its breath. His chest no longer rose. My hand stayed pressed to his fur, not wanting to accept the stillness beneath it.
"Hunter?"
Nothing.
The air left my lungs in a sharp, broken sob. I bent over him, clutching him to my chest. I stayed there for a long time, maybe minutes, maybe hours, I couldn't tell. My tears fell onto his fur, darkening it in spots. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the faint hum of the forest, the slow call of a mourning dove.
When I finally lifted my head, I heard a soft sound of footsteps crunching on fallen leaves. For a second, I thought it was my imagination again. The wind had been playing tricks on me all day, whispering things I wanted so badly to hear. But then it came again, slower this time.
I turned toward the river. The mist hung low, silvering the air in that quiet hour before dawn. And there—half-shrouded in it—was Riven.
He was circling the willow tree the way he used to, playing a lighthearted game of hide-and-seek or peekaboo with a very small German shepherd dog that was innocently following him. At the start, Riven walks around the tree's bark, pretending to hide from the dog. The tiny dog keeps running around the tree, trying to catch him. Each time Riven switches sides, the dog follows quickly, wagging and trotting excitedly.
Riven then leans close to the bark, peeking around it and waiting for the dog, who keeps darting in and out of view. Eventually, Riven pretends to "sneak up" and playfully lunges toward the puppy, making it jump with excitement. I laughed bittersweetly as their game continues for a few more innocent and playful turns until both Riven and the dog run off together, with the dog happily chasing after him.
My throat closed. He looked just as I remembered—messy hair falling into his eyes, that half-smile that always made everything feel less impossible. Even from where I stood, I could almost feel the warmth of his presence.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
Because a part of me knew that if I did, the world would realize this wasn't real, and it would all vanish.
The pup barked when it playfully chased Riven. Riven, on the other hand, laughed upon being chased by the tiny dog. When I decided to stand up, Riven stopped and turned toward me. And our eyes met. For one suspended heartbeat, time stopped moving. The wind stilled. The mist hung frozen. And there was only him. Everything around him and the dog and the willow tree blurred.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He didn't do anything. He just smiled. Small. Real. The kind of smile that reached his eyes. And in that moment, it felt like I have gotten the closure I need. Like coming home to something I thought I'd lost forever.
The ache inside me cracked open. All the words I never said clawed their way up my throat but never found a voice. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was. For letting him go when all I wanted was to hold on. For every moment after that night when I looked at the willow tree and felt it echo his absence. But before I could even whisper his name, the image began to fade. The light that shaped him thinned, unraveling like smoke caught in the wind. The pup barked again—a sound so alive it hurt—and then both of them dissolved into the mist, leaving only the sway of grass and the whisper of the river's current.
Behind me, the soft flap of wings broke the stillness. Sebastian stood behind. He didn't say a word. And beside him, Augustus approached. No longer the child who always tugged my sleeves. He'd into the wise mentor he now was.
He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Whitlock's Academy stood proud behind me, alive with laughter and promise, and though the ghosts of the past still lingered, they no longer haunted me. They simply existed—woven into every wall, every whisper of the sea.
I smiled through the tears. Then I remembered Riven's letter.
I pressed the paper closer to my chest for a moment, trying to breathe through the ache that spread from my ribs to my throat. Maybe I shouldn't read it. Maybe it was too late to stop. But I before I could throw the paper away, I realized that his words were the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
And so, with shaking hands and a heart that felt far too heavy, I read on.
There was no clean ending. No goodbye. No grave to mourn at. Just smoke, silence, and the ache of what could've been, I thought to myself, not noticing I was already crying.
I glanced at the gold bars sitting on the table, wrapped in faded cloth. The ones my dad had left behind for me. I didn't need them anymore after I had the academy built. But my dad's words kept echoing in my mind—"Use them for something that matters."
And now, they did.
Riven's family.
Kelm.
I'd never met them. But I know that's where I was going to return what he left behind and to give his family something to remember him by.
"Riven Hyeon," I whispered, saying his full name like a prayer. "I'll make sure everyone will be safe in my home in honor of you and everyone else's memory—
—You gave me that hope, and I'll keep it burning til I die."