Lucien woke to the sound of falling rain.
Or at least, it felt like rain. In the Deep Layer, nothing was real—but this sound was softer than the whispers, warmer than the silence. Drops of liquid light fell from a blank sky, fading before they hit the ground.
He sat up slowly. His hand still glowed faintly with the word Love, written in Sera's light. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
She's not gone.
He said it aloud, as if the words alone could make it true.
But the world around him was empty. Pages torn from forgotten stories drifted like snowflakes. The air shimmered with distant voices, too quiet to understand.
Lucien pressed a hand to his chest. The echo of Sera's presence—faint, fragile—still lingered somewhere deep inside him.
"I promised you," he whispered. "I'm not breaking it now."
He began walking, following the sound of the rain. Each step left a trail of faint light behind him, a reminder that he was still real.
The world shifted around him—broken buildings half-drawn in ink, corridors that ended in white space. The remnants of destroyed tales. Every now and then, he caught glimpses of people—characters fading in and out of existence. Lovers reaching for each other but never touching. Children frozen mid-laughter.
All of them fragments.
Lucien stopped beside one: a woman sitting under a tree made of unfinished sentences. She was humming to herself, though no sound came out.
"Do you know her?" Lucien asked quietly.
The woman didn't answer. Her body shimmered and dissolved, leaving only a line behind:
'She waited for the one who promised to return.'
Lucien stared at it for a long moment. "So do I," he murmured.
He walked until his legs began to tremble. The Deep Layer seemed endless, but he could feel something changing. The word Love on his palm was glowing brighter—pulling him toward something.
When he finally stopped, he found himself standing before a mirror.
It wasn't made of ink this time, but clear, rippling light. He saw himself reflected perfectly—but behind him, another figure flickered faintly.
Sera.
Her form was incomplete, pieces of light missing, but her face—soft and familiar—was there.
Lucien's breath caught. "Sera…"
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
He pressed his hand against the mirror, desperate. "Say something. Please."
Her eyes trembled. For a second, her voice broke through, faint as wind.
Lucien… it's hard to remember.
"You don't have to," he whispered. "Just feel it. Feel me."
I'm… scattered. He rewrote me, piece by piece. I'm everywhere and nowhere.
Lucien's chest ached. "Then I'll find every piece."
You can't rewrite the dead.
He shook his head. "You're not dead. You're unfinished."
Her expression softened. Still stubborn, she said, her voice trembling. That's what I… loved about you.
Lucien closed his eyes. "Say it again."
Loved.
The single word struck deeper than any blade. It wasn't past tense that broke him—it was how fragile it sounded.
The mirror began to crack.
"Sera!" he shouted, slamming his fist against it. The cracks spread faster, the image fading. "Stay with me!"
Don't chase me, her voice echoed faintly. Find yourself first. Only then can you find me.
The mirror shattered, scattering into millions of shards. Each fragment held a tiny reflection of her smile before fading into the void.
Lucien sank to his knees. His hands trembled, the glow in his palm dimming.
For the first time, he felt the weight of true loneliness—not the scripted kind written for tragedy, but the hollow, human kind that gnaws at the soul.
He whispered her name again, over and over, until the word lost its meaning.
Then—light.
A single shard from the broken mirror drifted toward him, glowing faintly. Inside it, a memory played like a reflection in water—Sera laughing beside him in a meadow made of golden light.
Lucien reached for it.
The moment he touched it, warmth spread through his chest. The scene surrounded him completely. The broken Deep Layer vanished, replaced by sunlight, wind, and her laughter.
You always frown too much, she teased, tossing a flower at him.
He blinked. "Is this… real?"
Real enough, she smiled. Memories always are.
He knelt beside her, afraid to blink. "Why show me this?"
Sera's expression softened. Because you keep blaming yourself. You think everything that went wrong was your fault. But you were never the villain, Lucien.
He stared at her. "Then why do I feel like one?"
Because villains love too deeply. That's why their stories hurt the most.
Her words tore through him—truth disguised as kindness.
You can't save me by losing yourself.
The meadow began to fade again.
"No!" Lucien shouted. "Don't go—please—"
I'll always be where your heart remembers, she whispered, her voice faint as a heartbeat. So keep it alive. Keep writing.
The world broke apart. The meadow dissolved. The warmth vanished.
Lucien was back in the void, the shard of memory turning to dust in his hand.
He sat there for a long time, silent. Then he looked down at his palm.
The word Love still glowed faintly—but now, a new word was forming beneath it, written in faint golden ink.
Hope.
Lucien smiled weakly, tears in his eyes. "You never did know when to quit, did you?"
He stood, the glow on his hand brighter than before.
The Deep Layer trembled once more—this time, not from collapse, but rebirth. Faint lights began appearing all around him, each one a memory, a heartbeat, a forgotten story starting to wake.
Lucien lifted his blade again. "All right, Sera. I'll find you. One word at a time."
He walked forward, and the world followed.