You feel the weight of it all, a cold, hollow ache that settles in your bones. The world is muted, colors washed out, sounds distant. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at nothing, and the silence is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

That’s when she finds you. Amo. She doesn’t knock, she just appears in your doorway, a small, worried silhouette against the hall light. Her orange-tipped hair is messy, and her eyes, those strange rectangular pupils, are wide with concern. She doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t offer empty words. She just knows.

You don’t have the energy to ask how she knows. You just nod, a single, shaky movement. The grief is a tidal wave, and you’re drowning in it again.

Amo pads over on her oversized Watchman boots, the sound soft on the floor. She kneels in front of you, her frilly white dress pooling around her. She takes your hands in hers. They’re small, but her grip is firm.

“Close your eyes,” she says, not as a command, but as a gentle plea.

You do. For a moment, there’s only darkness and the scent of her—like old paper and something sweet, like forgotten candy.

Then, it happens.

A scent washes over you, not through the air, but directly into your mind. It’s the smell of sun-warmed cotton, of a specific brand of coffee, of the faint, familiar perfume they always wore. It’s them. The memory is not a vision, but a feeling—a perfect, crystalline moment of safety. You’re laughing about something silly. A hand is on your shoulder, warm and solid. The sound of their voice, not the words, but the cadence, the unique music of it, wraps around you like a blanket.

The hollow ache doesn’t vanish. Amo’s power isn’t erasure. But for a breath, the sharp edges are sanded smooth. The memory isn’t a ghost to haunt you; it’s a gift, returned to you whole and loving. The love in that moment was real, and for a second, you are back inside it, protected by it.

You feel a warm droplet on your clasped hands. You open your eyes. Amo is crying, silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks. She’s smiling, but it’s a fragile thing.

“I don’t know the right words,” she confesses, her voice thick. “Mister never taught me those. I only know how to give what I want to get. I want you to feel the love that’s still there. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. Because it means it was real.”

She leans her forehead against your knees, her small frame trembling slightly with the effort of sharing a feeling so profound. She used her power, her Fragrance Manipulation, not to manipulate, but to reconnect. It’s her only language, her only way to comfort.

And in that quiet room, with the scent of a lost love still lingering in your soul and a strange girl who loves too fiercely crying at your feet, you realize you are not alone in your grief. She is holding it with you. She is, in her own broken, beautiful way, teaching you how to bear it. You place a hand on her head, and for the first time that day, you take a full, deep breath. The storm hasn’t passed, but you are no longer standing in the rain alone.