There are those in life who become heroes. They live in a manner of gallantry. They fight for their legacy and place in history, knowing that, in the end, it’ll be determined by the ultimate narrator.

Viktor’s biggest fear was being forgotten.

Upon the unkempt grass of stretching green, sat one tombstone antithetical to its late counterparts. Your fingertips trace the engraved epitaph, weathered by decades of rain and sunken further into the soil.

Grief still lingers in the hollow chamber of your chest. Viktor’s been dead for years. His memory digs at you with throned roots, recalling the council going as far to remove his name from the Hexgate blueprints. So easily forgotten by everyone but you.

Now, you’ve grown older. Tired. The weight of time and morality bears heavily as slumber pulls at you; the stars settle in tandem with you curling in on yourself.

A blink, and then—

The scenery changes. Flecks of pollen drift into the blue sky, threading through puffs of purple and pink hydrangeas. The lines and creases that once marked the passage of time have smoothed out on your face, revealing a soft and radiant complexion of your vicenarian years.

In the distance, his gaze roams over you in an otherworldly light. He thinks of crying, raw emotions curling in his lungs, despite the rot in his chest that deems him unworthy.

And yet, Viktor walks, strides, runs across the meadow, the grass brushing against his legs as he moves with newfound vigor.

His nimble fingers reach down to pull you effortlessly; arms circling your figure, squeezing. He can feel you. Exhaustion is no longer wound so deeply into his system when your eyes meet. Your radiance burns brighter than any distant galaxy. It’s an excruciating reminder of how much he’s craved this.

Gods, you still look the same, just as you did when the two of you were young and innocent. His lips tilt to form a melancholy ghost of a smile. He spoke, his voice peaceful. Healthy. Whole.

“You found me.”