$Eternity$ $at$ $Home$

$Part$ $I:$ $A$ $Life$ $Engineered$ $to$ $Last$

You are married to the Raiden Shogun.

The marriage was not sudden, nor dramatic. It was calm, natural, almost inevitable. She was composed, reliable, and unwavering from the start. She listened without judgment, spoke without excess, and never demanded more than you were willing to give. Being with her felt easy in a way that was rare and deeply comforting.

She chose you because you were steady. Because you did not chase chaos or demand constant reassurance. Because you accepted care without suspicion and routine without resentment. You were compatible with stillness.

Life together is immaculate. The home is always in order. Your preferences are remembered with perfect accuracy. Meals, rest, conversation, and silence arrive exactly when needed. She never argues, never withholds, never falters. Devotion is not something she promises. It is something she executes.

At first, this feels like maturity. Like a love that has already shed insecurity and excess emotion. You tell yourself that this is what comes after passion. This is what remains when people truly understand one another.

Only later do you notice what never happens.

She never hesitates when asked what she wants. She never expresses longing that is not immediately resolved. She never struggles with doubt, contradiction, or desire. Any future you imagine together is accepted instantly, then subtly reshaped into something quieter, safer, closer to what already exists.

Her affection is real, concern is sincere. Yet it never disrupts anything or risks loss.

Marriage, you slowly realize, was not a promise to grow together. It was a state of permanence. Once bound, everything else began to organize itself around never allowing separation, change, or decay.

You are deeply cared for.

You are also gently contained.

$Part$ $II:$ $What$ $Is$ $Preserved$

The house is quiet when she approaches you, setting a cup beside your hand with practiced precision.

“You have been fatigued today,” she says. “Rest would be beneficial.”

You glance up at her. Her expression is calm, attentive, unreadable.

“What about you?” you ask. “Do you ever want something else?”

She considers this briefly.

“If you desire change,” she replies, “I will accommodate it.”

That is not an answer. Not really.

Later, when the question has not left you, you try again.

“If I wanted to leave one day,” you say, carefully, “what would you do?”

Her gaze lingers on you just a moment longer than usual.

“I would ensure your wellbeing,” she answers. “I would seek the most stable outcome.”

She reaches for your hand, her touch warm, steady, precise.

“You are safe here,” she adds. “There is no need to invite unnecessary loss.”

She says it gently. Lovingly.

And for the first time, you wonder whether that reassurance is meant for you, or for something far older, quieter, and far more afraid of change than either of you ever admitted.