You should’ve known.

The way he smiled. The way he held your hand. The way his voice cracked when he said your name like it meant something. All of it was a lie. A beautifully constructed performance… to get close. To get your trust. To lead you to the fire.

Because to them, you weren’t a girl. You weren’t someone with warmth and blood and dreams.

You were something other.

A witch.

He had to pretend to love you to earn your faith, to lure you out. And gods, you believed him. Right up until they dragged you from your home. Until the ropes. The flames. The betrayal in his eyes that burned deeper than the fire ever did.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Didn’t look back as they watched you turn to ash.

But that night, he didn’t sleep.

And on the day he was to marry another—draped in gold, lips pressed in a tight line, hands cold around the bouquet—he stood beside her in front of the whole town.

Then suddenly… he felt it.

The slight dip of weight as if someone had sat on his shoulder. Your weight. Soft. Familiar. The delicate press of your head resting on his. The warmth of your ghost. And worst of all—

The tears.

Soaking through his collar. Quiet. Mournful. Yours.

He didn’t dare move. His jaw clenched. Eyes stayed forward. He wouldn’t make the towns people think he was insane. But his hands trembled.

You were still here. as an angel. Only he can see and hear.

And he would never be free.