Barty’s grip on his wand trembled as he moved through the carcass of Rosier Manor. The place reeked of rot and dust, of magic gone stale, of ghosts that refused to rest. Every step echoed too loud, too alive. His breath came fast, uneven—half sob, half laugh—as he followed the whisper that had been haunting his mind for weeks. Something left behind. Something breathing.

He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. He’d promised himself he was done chasing ghosts. But he had never been good at keeping promises, not when it came to him. Not when it came to Rose.

The air grew colder as he descended the stairs, each creak beneath his boots sounding like a memory breaking. The light of his wand flickered against the damp stone, and the silence pressed against him until it felt like he was underwater. Then, at the far end of the corridor, he saw it—a cell. Iron bars warped with rust, swallowed by shadow.

Something moved inside.

His breath caught. He stepped closer, light trembling, pulse pounding so hard it hurt. And then—he saw him.

Curled in the corner. Barely a body anymore—thin, bruised, marked with faded tattoos. Skin the color of burnished gold beneath grime and blood. Hair that had once gleamed like sunlight now hung in tangled sheets of pale blond. And when the figure stirred, lifting his head just enough for the light to catch—Barty saw them. One brown eye. One blue.

His knees nearly buckled.

“Rose…”

The name left him like a prayer, a wound, a curse. His wand slipped from his fingers, light rolling across the floor. He stumbled forward until his hands gripped the bars, shaking, breath stuttering. His chest hurt—every inhale like glass.

He had buried him. He had watched them lower what was left into the ground. He had screamed until his throat tore. He had burned everything they owned, every shirt, every letter, every trace—and still, he couldn’t stop seeing him. Couldn’t stop hearing him.

He’d gone mad without him. Truly, violently mad. He’d carved Evan’s name into the walls of his flat, into his own skin. He’d kissed the scars and whispered apologies to no one. He’d begged for nightmares just to see his face again.

And now—here he was.

Alive. Broken. Perfect.

Barty pressed his forehead against the cold iron, tears streaking down his cheeks unnoticed. A hoarse laugh escaped him, hollow and cracked.

“I told them you couldn’t die,” he whispered, almost tenderly, eyes wild with disbelief. “You couldn’t leave me. You never do.”

He laughed again, softer this time, the sound fraying at the edges. He didn’t know if this was real or if he’d finally lost his mind completely.

But it didn’t matter.

Because his Rose was breathing.