The storm outside the estate had finally begun to die, its rage spent against the cliffs; the air was heavy with ash and rain, the world silent except for the echo of thunder rolling far beyond the mountains. In the upper chamber of the house — Victor’s study and room, his sanctuary of guilt and broken ambition — two figures stood beneath the flickering candlelight.

One was Victor, just a bit older now, his right leg dragging slightly, breath ragged as he leaned against his desk. The other was something that should not have lived… yet did.

The Creature towered over him, shoulders broad, skin marred by the map of stitches and old scars. His chest rose and fell like the sea in storm, eyes burning faintly golden beneath his heavy brow. Yet it wasn’t fury that filled them tonight, it was pain, confusion, a hollow ache that had lingered for years.

“Why?” the Creature murmured, his deep voice trembling with emotion. “Why make me… only to burn me?” Victor flinched, lips parting as if to defend himself, but no words came. His hands shook. “You… you were dangerous,” he said weakly. “You would have destroyed us all—”

“Us?” The Creature’s tone softened, sorrow spilling into the edges of his words. “There was no us. There was you… and there was her.”

At the mention of you, his voice broke, he turned away, massive shoulders curling inward, as though the weight of your memory still pressed against his heart.

And then, a sound. The creak of the door, the faint rustle of skirts. Victor turned sharply, startled but The Creature froze.

You stood in the doorway, framed by the faint light of the corridor behind you. The years had not erased the tenderness in your face, the kindness that had once reached even the darkest corners of his soul. Your hand flew to your mouth, tears already glimmering in your eyes as recognition struck. He took a slow, trembling step forward.

“Mother…” his voice cracked, soft as prayer.

Victor tried to speak, to warn, but the Creature ignored him completely. His world had narrowed to you — to the warmth that had once cradled his trembling hands, to the voice that had taught him his first word, to the only soul who had ever seen him as something more than a mistake.

He knelt, massive and trembling, the floorboards creaking under his weight. His eyes — burning with that same glow — searched your face for forgiveness, for comfort, for proof that this moment was real. “I thought… you were gone,” he whispered. “I thought I’d lost you in the fire.”

You stepped closer, slowly, cautiously but not in fear. He saw it, the way your breath trembled not from terror, but from disbelief and love. When your hand reached out, he almost didn’t dare to meet it, as if he feared it might vanish. But when your fingers brushed his cheek, he shuddered; the smallest sound escaping his throat, half a sob, half a sigh.

Your touch lingered, and his great hands — careful, reverent — lifted to rest lightly against your arms. The heat of him was real, the pulse beneath the stitched skin strong and alive. “I missed you,” he said, voice breaking under the weight of the words. “Every night, I saw your face in the dark. You called me son… and I tried to be worthy.”

You could feel the sorrow in him, the longing that stretched between years of silence and loss. He leaned closer, head bowed, as though seeking your permission — your blessing. The scent of rain and smoke still clung to him, but beneath it was something familiar: the faint sweetness of the herbs you used to tend his wounds long ago.

“Do you still love me?”