(PHROLOVA'S POV)
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| Blackshores - In the Distant Past |
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The wind won't quiet down tonight.
It claws at the shutters like some restless thing begging to be let in, rattling the thin glass panes of my room. I stand by the calendar pinned crookedly on the wall, the paper corners curling like tired petals.
Just one day. Only a day since I arrived and already the square inked with today feels unbearably heavy, like the weight of all the questions I've pretended not to ask.
When will I leave?
Maybe now.
Maybe never.
Maybe only when you do… whenever that is.
The thought sinks like a cold stone into my stomach. I press my palm over the aching space just beneath my heart, as if I can smooth out the sharp edges of worry by sheer force. But it lingers, stubborn and frustratingly unresolved.
Because nothing about you is ever simple.
You told me—so casually, so confidently—that you came back for me. The way your eyes held mine when you said it… gods, I can't shake it. You said you wanted to see my composition finished, that you wouldn't leave until I was done. Your tone had that quiet certainty, like a compass that somehow always points back to me.
But how?
And why?
And what happens after?
My fingers tighten around the hem of my sleeve. The wool is soft, worn from years of being twisted exactly like this whenever my thoughts tangle too tightly. I feel the same sting forming at the back of my eyes the too-familiar feeling of anticipating loss long before it arrives.
Will you disappear again once my piece is complete?
Will you walk away like you always do.
And if you do… what becomes of me?
My life has always been a barter.
A negotiation for my goals.
A compromise wrapped in another compromise.
Company in exchange for usefulness.
Safety in exchange for silence.
A future in exchange for tasks I never asked for.
And somehow, you became tangled in those bargains too without ever fully explaining why.
My throat tightens as I sit at the edge of the bed, fingers threading into my hair.
Do you understand what I've poured into this piece?
Every note.
Every ache.
Every unspoken plea I'll never have the courage to voice directly.
Do you know the heartache? The longing?
The parts of myself I stitched into the melody like a confession only the brave could interpret?
I doubt you do.
And yet… some foolish piece of me hopes you do.
The wind surges again, rattling the door. I lift my head and let out a shaky exhale, blinking away the prickling heat in my eyes.
You confuse me.
I'm filled with questions—endless, spiraling, suffocating questions about you, about me, about us… whatever "us" even means. My mind keeps circling back to the same terrifying thought: What if I never mattered to you as much as you mattered to me?
Sometimes, I tell myself I want you to leave.
That it would be easier if you walked away, if you vanished into the storm and never looked back.
But that's a lie.
A pathetic, transparent lie.
Because the truth—is that I don't want you to go.
Not now.
Not yet.
Not when your presence has become the one quiet, steady rhythm in my otherwise chaotic existence.
Not when being near you makes me feel… human, in a way I barely remember.
I swallow hard, pressing my fingers to my lips as if to trap the confession there:
I want you here with me. I want you to stay with me.
It feels childish, foolish, and embarrassingly sentimental but real nonetheless.
I know I should be strong.
I know I should learn how to survive without leaning on the warmth of your voice, your steady hands, your maddening silence that somehow says more than most people manage with entire speeches.
But wanting to be strong doesn't mean I'm brave enough to face that kind of loneliness again.
Not after everything.
Not after you gave me even a fleeting taste of companionship a brief moment of calm in this long, exhausting chase for meaning, for safety, for something resembling hope.
And now…
Now I'm terrified of losing it.
I close my eyes, letting the wind's soft howl thread through the room like a ghostly lullaby. My hands rest in my lap, trembling slightly not from the cold, but from the weight of wanting something I have no right to ask for.
Maybe you'll stay.
Maybe you won't.
Maybe this piece I'm writing is the beginning of our end.
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| The Blackshores |
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The night is colder than I expected.
Each breath brushes past my lips like pale smoke as I walk, hands tucked loosely into the sleeves of my dress. I didn't intend to wander this far, yet here I am drifting through the paths of Blackshores as if carried by some quiet tide I have no power to resist. My chest is noisy with thoughts I cannot still, and the more I try to outrun them, the more they cling to my ribs.
And then—
A single piano note slices through the silence.
I stop mid-step. And before my mind can protest, my feet veer toward the garden as if pulled by invisible string.
Part of me wonders if this place is a compass guiding me not forward, but back. Back to them. Back to the warmth I lost. Back to the one whose absence still gnaws at the softest part of me.
Just because you are here now does not mean I no longer want to see them.
If anything… your presence only reminds me how much I ache for what I once had.
You—you are fleeting. Too gentle, too selfless, too prepared to vanish the moment I blink too long. You burn like a match bright but brief. I cannot build a fire from someone who refuses to stay lit.
But they…
They burned out not by choice.
Disaster took them.
Time swallowed them.
A cruel twist of fate, not a decision.
And somehow that hurts less.
Or perhaps it hurts differently.
I told myself I could move on. I told myself I didn't need their words, their little gifts left on my windowsill, the warmth of their home that smelled like sandalwood and books. But I was lying.
Because every path I take
every road I wander
every night I try to sleep
I always end up back to them.
Relieving their memories over and over again.
A gust of wind scatters petals across the stairs white, pink, and a few fallen shadows of violet. They spiral upward, caught in cool currents, floating like tiny lanterns toward the dotted sky. I stare, entranced, my heart quieting even as my thoughts refuse to.
The petals lift my gaze upward… and then, slowly, I lower it back to earth.
And that's when I see her.
A figure bathed in moonlight:
pale skin faintly luminescent,
hair dyed in hues of wintered azure,
lashes resting soft against her cheeks.
Her eyes are closed, utterly lost to the world, fingers gliding across the keys as if the piano were breathing through her. Her shoulders sway gently with each chord, and the expression on her face serene, and unguarded makes her look almost ethereal.
I don't recognize the song.
It's not one of the classics.
Not a piece shared among the maestros.
You can always tell when music is born from the heart. I wouldn't have earned my acclaim if I couldn't.
Play from your head and you'll craft something pleasant. Predictable. Replaceable.
But play from your heart—bleed into your measures, fracture into your crescendos and you'll create something no one else can imitate.
Something immortal.
A small ache pinches behind my sternum.
I shouldn't be here.
So I step back.
I adjust the pressure of my heels, rolling my weight to the balls of my feet, careful not to let the gravel crunch. As I turn to leave, something pale catches my eye.
The lilies.
White spider lilies that bloomed yesterday ghostlike, trembling in the breeze. They sit beside a cluster of black-petaled ones. Side by side. Two contrasts that shouldn't coexist, yet somehow do.
Black and white.
Light and shadow.
Grief and hope.
One looks drained as if all its color was siphoned away. The other glows with a stark, lonely purity.
Opposites, perhaps.
Or maybe not opposites at all.
Maybe just two versions of the same sorrow, wearing different faces.
I let my gaze linger a moment longer then slip silently into the night, letting the piano and the petals and the ghost of who I used to be fade behind me.
"You may stay if you wish."
I stop.
Slowly, I turn.
She stands there above me on the stairway landing, the moonlight washing her in a cool sheen. Her posture is relaxed, elbows loose at her sides, fingers still hovering over the piano keys.
Her eyes meet mine.
"For whatever reason," she continues, "the music, the flowers, or the peace that follows… you may stay here."
Then her lashes lower, drifting shut again, and she turns her attention back to the keys returning to her melody.
I wouldn't have faulted her if she'd ignored me entirely. Some things matter more than people. Some things—like music born of aching hearts require devotion that leaves no space for strangers.
And yet… she let me remain.
I step forward, finding a place to sit on the stone staircase leading up to her platform. Just far enough to give her privacy. Just close enough for the music to wash through me without obstruction. The steps are cool beneath me, grounding, the faint scent of lilies drifting in the air.
There's a peculiar sense of gratitude curling inside my chest. Like receiving a gift you weren't searching for, only to realize it was something you had been longing for unknowingly. Like opening an old attic box and finding a childhood toy you barely remember, yet your heart recognizes instantly.
Memory is strange.
It reaches deeper than we dare to look.
And sometimes we wish we hadn't.
My gaze drifts to the pair of blossoms below the black and white lilies growing side by side. They lean forward slightly, almost as if the flowers themselves are gazing up at the star-splattered sky they share with us.
They remind me of you.
A flutter interrupts my thoughts.
Cerulean wings float down and land upon the black lily. The flower trembles under the tiny weight, but does not break. The butterfly settles carefully, as if it knows exactly how fragile its perch may be.
Its presence feels symbolic. Or maybe I'm just searching too desperately for meaning again.
The wings shiver once more and then lift off. The creature flits past me, its movement gentle as a sigh. I follow its path with my eyes and see it approach her.
The pianist does not flinch.
Does not startle.
Does not pause in her playing.
The butterfly perches on her index finger hovering just above the black-and-white keys. A perfect mirror of her colors. A quiet acknowledgment, maybe even affection.
She lifts her hand slightly to accommodate it, her movements fluid and precise. The barest smile so faint it might be a trick of the moonlight touches the corner of her lips.
Such an odd design choice, those inverted keys… I think absently, before a question stirs inside me.
"What did you think?"
Her question lands gently, Of course she means the music. She couldn't have seen the way my eyes lingered on the flowers, or the stars, or the memories.
"It was… beautiful," I answer at last, my voice softer than intended. I'm not one to judge an intimate piece one not meant for the world, but for a chosen heart. Critiques are for formal stages, for artists who perform for applause, not for someone who plays as though her soul is unraveling into each note. What matters here isn't technicality. It's meaning. A song like that isn't written. It's confessed. It blooms like a butterfly cracking from its cocoon, meant only for those trusted enough to witness the transformation.
She doesn't comment on my silence or my restraint. Instead, she asks—
"Would you care to play?"
Her words drift to me like an offering. She sits poised on the bench, head tilted slightly to the side in quiet curiosity, her pale lashes catching the moonlight. She looks… genuine. As though she'd truly welcome my hands on her carefully tended keys.
I shake my head. "I'll have to refuse."
She blinks once, slowly. "If you feel as if your skills are lacking, then worry not. I don't judge."
A faint humorless smile tugs at my lip. "My skills aren't the issue. It's simply that… it isn't the medium I use to express myself."
She turns toward me fully now, the butterfly still perched on her finger. "Then what is?"
"…The violin."
Her eyes lower, thoughtful, as if she's threading the idea through her mind.
Of course. The piano is too tranquil, too serene for what I carry. My expression is shaped by tension and release the bow dragging across strings, the sudden bite of a pizzicato, the tremble of emotion barely caged in wood. It reminds me of home. Of how our peace was long and fragile, a single drawn note… before the abrupt snap of silence where no one survived to sing the rest.
Her fingers glide over the keys again, absentmindedly brushing a chord as if thinking through my confession.
I take a breath and look at her. "I want to return your question. What do you think of your piece?"
She pauses. The butterfly shifts on her knuckle. Her gaze goes distant.
"…To me," she begins, voice barely above a whisper, "it is everything he has given me. Every moment, every trust, every idea. It holds his first and final breaths in each passing note."
My chest tightens at her honesty.
"…Then how does the idea of his eventual passing sit with you?" I ask.
Her answer comes without hesitation, as though she has carried it for a long time.
"It sits drifting along endless rampant tides," she murmurs. "Soon, though, it shall return whence it came. Birthed in chaos, and ending in peace."
I swallow. "How can you simply accept it?"
Her gaze tilts upward, toward the night sky where petals and stars blur into one.
"Because it is cruel to believe that our joy was endless," she says. "It is bittersweet to feel this way… despite not being designed to."
Her voice cracks as though she's confessing something forbidden.
I lean forward despite myself. "When he's gone… what will you do?"
For the first time, she falters.
Just slightly.
Just enough to reveal the truth hiding beneath her composure.
"I will be awake," she says softly, "restless. Like I could throw my life away just to see them...him again."
The butterfly flutters its wings once, as if echoing her ache.
"I wish to sleep," she continues, "not because it makes forgetting easier. I do not want to forget. Instead, I wish to dream… in appreciation that we floated into each other at all."
Her words strike me like biting into a sour candy from Auntie's old stash sharp at first, almost painful, before melting into a sweetness that lingers long after the taste fades. A bittersweetness so honest it nearly strips me bare.
She is telling the truth.
And suddenly, I understand her music more clearly than any critique ever could.
The Shorekeeper stands with her back to me. Even from behind, she carries a kind of serenity I can't quite touch.
When she finally speaks, "I too now wish to return the question, what will you do when he is gone?"
My fingers curl against my sleeves. My throat tightens in that familiar ache I keep pretending isn't there.
"…I'd wait."
She slowly turns toward me, expression unreadable, eyes soft but impossibly old like she sees through the very bones of me.
"Is that all?"
I lower my gaze,
"…."
Her footsteps whisper closer.
"There's more you wish for than just him."
The statement lands like a pebble thrown into still water, sending ripples through everything I've been trying not to admit.
"Is it right for me to indulge in that though?" My voice cracks at the end. I hate that she hears it.
She tilts her head, studying every tremble of my expression.
"That depends. What is it you desire apart from him?"
The memories strike all at once.
Faces I haven't seen in years.
Laughter that isn't coming back.
Smoke rising over homes that no longer exist.
"Them," I whisper. "My home. My family. My village… all back."
The Shorekeeper's lashes lower as if in mourning on my behalf. Her voice is quiet, almost sympathetic, but still merciless with truth:
"If I told you that was impossible, what would you do?"
I raise my head. My chest burns with something hot and stubborn.
"I wouldn't let you stop me."
Her lips twitch.
"If he said it, what then?"
Jeff
His name crashes through me like a wave. His voice, his warmth, his ridiculous optimism, the way he looks at me like he sees a future only I can't imagine.
I swallow hard.
"…In the end," I say quietly, "I'd bitterly accept that some were never meant to see eye-to-eye."
Her eyes soften.
"Correct. That is why you are special here."
My breath hitches.
"...In what way?"
She steps closer, the glow of the cavern brushing her features pale blue light catching on her serene expression.
"In that, you do not need to abide by his wishes. None of us needed to… but it's the fact we had nothing else to cling onto."
Her gaze deepens.
"You do though."
My heart stutters.
"…You don't oppose what I wish?"
A small shake of her head. "No. In fact, I believe you have what it takes to go against him in a way that ultimately helps him."
My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale.
"Not all are meant to walk the same path for a good reason," she continues, "Sometimes we are meant to depart for the betterment of each other."
I close my eyes for a moment.
If so…
If so—
"If so… then I'd like to walk for my own sake…"
But she sees right through me.
"You say that, but I can detect your hesitance."
I freeze.
She's right.
"Because…" My voice trembles. My fingers tighten at my chest. "I feel as if I've tricked myself that this matters… our time, our memories, our moments me and him, a pair never to be. That I cannot change the outcome."
Her expression turns almost sorrowfully soft.
"You may not, but that doesn't mean it is meaningless."
"…How so?"
"If the time with people you spent meant nothing because of death, then humanity would never bother moving at all."
Her voice echoing wisdom carved by centuries. "It is the cruel war of time that gives us fear—fear of misopportunity, fear of having regrets, and fear of not saying what we wish to say—that makes us realize what is beautiful."
My chest aches.
My eyes sting.
"Then… what does it mean to be immortal? A curse?"
"No. A tour." She gazes at the dark waters on the horizon. "To see those cruel displays and wonder to ourselves what really matters to us."
She turns her attention back to me.
"So tell me, what matters to you?"
I take a breath, the answer trembling out of me.
"…Home."
Her voice dips to a whisper, almost motherly.
"Find home then. In a place, in a person, in a moment. For that will be where you will be born, buried, and finding yourself drifting back to."
Her words feel like a hand pressed gently against my heart.
Her figure dissolves into the night like a watercolor stroke dragged gently across paper shades of blue brightening into yellow before the darkness swallows them whole.
In her place, the piano sits still, its final lingering note drifting off into the cold air as if reluctant to fade. A finished piece… yet somehow waiting to be played again.
For the self. For the soul. For a partner who may never return.
But music does not beg for permanence.
It lives for the moment it is heard
and dies beautifully thereafter.
Perhaps that is why, even in their drifting, the ones who played it wore small, knowing smiles. Because they heard each other. Even if only once. Even if only in passing.
And then it is only me. The garden is quiet save for the whisper of the wind weaving through petals and stone. The moon has moved further along its route, tracing the same path it has followed long before I was born and long after I will fade.
I think of you again.
The fate carved into your palms.
The inevitability that clings to you like the salt of the sea.
You are like the moon above
a wandering light that brushes past me,
soft but unreachable, named among countless stars that never stay long enough to belong to anyone.
But you will care for me in the way you care for all fleeting things
with a gentle fondness
and a painful clarity
knowing that I, too, will pass.
I will make you remember me not because I was exceptional, but because I was ephemeral.
And you will miss me if only for a heartbeat before you collect yourself and let time pull you back to the railbound path you chose.
Or perhaps the path that chose you.
Now I understand.
I finally understand why you hold people without ever trying to keep them.
Why you do not fight the current,
why you do not reach for the lever to change your course
even when you could.
Because it is better this way.
Easier on the heart.
Kinder to the world.
You let the waves take you because you trust deeply and foolishly and beautifully
that they will carry you somewhere you are meant to be.
And somewhere inside you,
in the quiet corner of your mind that you protect but never admit to, you hold me as the place you want to be.
The idea steadies me.
It warms the cold edges of the night.
It makes everything you do, everything you don't do, make sense.
Because what I know now
what I accept, finally
is that whatever we are…
Whatever we end up becoming…
Whatever we lose or never reach…
We are no longer strangers.