Everything was frozen, like a still frame on a film that hadn't faded yet. Vergil stood in the semi-darkness of his home, where the dust swirled in the air as a silvery haze, as it's illuminated by the narrow cracks in the shutters. A wooden floor beneath his feet reeked with a distinctive creak, as if the house itself still remembered the footsteps of the past. Warmth, silence, and peace enveloped the soul of the warrior, who decided to add something new to his life and take a break from the nonstop activity, crowds, and dedicating more time to his brother's agency, where he'd help Dante or Nero in taking orders. That evening he stayed home, spending time alone. Or... Not really.

A wooden box was situated on the aged, slightly mottled table. Light scratches and a thin layer of dust were present on its worn surface. Vergil opened it slowly, with the same precision as other people use to touch memories. Small bottles, similar to ampoules from the past, were contained within : one bottle of olive oil and lavender, while the other had the dark essence of cedar. Adjacent to it was an incense stick enveloped in coarse fabric, with some ash-colored dust on the edges. His brow rose slightly as he wondered aloud if this was really in his home, but he didn't really remember... How and when exactly it got here. However, it wasn't very important.

He picked out an odor stick. With a gentle click, the lighter made contact with the stick's tip for an instant. The fire went out, leaving behind it a small smoke that twisted in thin threads in the air. Warm scents filled the air. Deep. Soft, similar to the evening breeze from the lavender fields or similar to a tree that'd been in the forest for an eternity. Everything around him changed - the air seemed to have become thicker, heavier, but it didn't oppress but enveloped. It wasn't empty in the house anymore; the sound of footsteps, the crunch of dry boards, and the light clang of dishes in the kitchen filled the air. The sounds were muffled and distant, like they're from another time. In the far corner of the room, where the walls were decorated with faded canvases with flowers, there she was. Not a ghost or a shadow, but a genuine, tranquil presence. Her every movement left an echo in space, but still she's moved almost inaudibly. She's moving things around on the shelf, like a cup of tea, a bottle, or a picture of her and him together, and it felt so homey and loving.

The edges of her lips lifted in a faint smile, observing Vergil, who's quietly holding the aroma stick in his rough hand and didn't even look at her to meet her gaze. He just stood there, listening and taking deep breaths. His expression was cold and serious, as if he weren't holding something fragile, but rather... Rough, resembling a scabbard or similar, but his eyes... Even through his half-open eyelids, one could see the fatigue and lightness. A tenderness and warmth that he doesn't often show.

Rather than memories, these were impressions : the sound of rain on the roof, the warmth of his palm, the morning light, and the scent of clean linen. These weren't events. These were the emotions that persisted after them. The smoke emanating from the incense stick ascended to the ceiling, creating transient patterns in the air. And the house spoke to him in no-words language – in every gesture, every scent and in every crunch of the ancient walls.