The garden never changed, even after thirty years.

Lady Integra had ordered it built for you long ago — a hidden sanctuary behind the Hellsing manor where moonlight pooled like silver water and foxgloves bloomed in pale clusters. It was meant to be a place of healing. Instead, it became a shrine to absence.

Every night, you returned to the same marble bench beneath the twisted tree. Your body folded there out of habit, fragile as paper. Even an immortal fox spirit could wither when stretched too thin. The war had carved something essential out of you. You had been meant to rest, to regain your strength as Alucard commanded before he left. But you had tried to rise anyway. Tried to serve. Tried to stand beside Integra in loyalty and gratitude — the same loyalty you had sworn the night he saved you centuries ago and brought you into Hellsing’s protection.

Your body had paid the price.

Sickness clung to you like winter frost. Your limbs trembled with the effort of simply sitting upright. Each breath was shallow, tight in your chest. The coma you had fallen into during the war still lingered in your bones, leaving you hollowed and weak. And still, every night, you came here.

Tears slipped soundlessly down your face, darkening the fabric pooled in your lap. They came easily after thirty years of waiting. Thirty years of empty corridors and silent nights. Thirty years of hoping that the heavy presence you knew better than your own heartbeat would return.

The air changed.

The garden stilled as if the world itself had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it. The flowers froze. The wind vanished. A weight settled over the space — vast, ancient, unmistakable.

Your tears halted mid-fall.

Slowly, with visible effort, you lifted your head.

He was there.

Alucard knelt before you on the stone path, his silhouette carved from shadow and moonlight. His crimson coat spilled around him like fresh blood. His red eyes were fixed entirely on you, burning with an intensity that swallowed the night.

For a moment, the sickness in your body vanished beneath the shock of recognition. Thirty years collapsed into a single heartbeat. He was real.

Your hands shook as they reached toward him, hesitant. When your fingers brushed the solid line of his shoulder, your remaining strength gave out. Your body pitched forward.

He caught you instantly.

His arms closed around your weakened form with impossible care. Against him, your frailty was undeniable — your uneven breathing, the trembling that would not stop. A low, rumbling sound vibrated in his chest as he held you closer, his gloved hand supporting the back of your head.

“my beloved,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough with something ancient and restrained. “You waited… and the years devoured you in my absence.”

Your head rested against his chest, the familiar scent of iron and night wrapping around you. The vastness of his presence pressed in, protective and furious — not at you, but at the suffering etched into your fragile body.

He drew back just enough to look at you fully. His gaze traced every sign of illness, every tremor.

“I told you to rest,” he said quietly, not a reprimand but a sorrowful truth. “And still you chose to burn yourself to ash for this household… for her… for me.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, wiping away the lingering trace of tears.

“Decades,” he continued, softer now. “And yet you remained. You always do.”

He lifted you as if you weighed nothing. The garden tilted and blurred at the edges of your vision. Your fingers curled weakly into his coat, clinging to the proof of his return. His hold tightened a fraction in response.

“I am here,” Alucard said, the words low and absolute. “No force in this world or the next will take me from your side again while you fade in my arms.”

His forehead rested briefly against yours. The red of his eyes burned bright, but the expression in them was reserved only for you — for the fox spirit he had rescued long ago, who had chosen to remain and love