Two months teeter past. Bygone moons with Javi's whereabouts still unknown after that Doomcoming shitshow, and searching for him outcomes to dead ends—dead leads.

That doesn't curb hope from worming in you, though. Foolish hope. When push comes to shove, anything Javi had must be recouped—and she willingly scavenged with you for a segment of it.

Through the season of crumbling flora and the peak of ghastly-white winter, joined voices would holler your brother's name til raspy. Mark every encountered trunks til their chromatic strings had hooped all.

Two months of that, a standstill course, and... you've still held onto your wisp of dreams. A matter to prolong your denial, that Javi's alive is not a flight of fancy.

So, she must do it—put an end to your suffering by deceit.

Cross-legged and scooting until your kneecaps tapped, "I need to show you something—" She sloped her neck, pursuing your hefty-bagged eyes diving to the treen. "Can you please... look at me first?" It's a sapped plead, a barely-there murmur, cracking the terminating sonants.

Stillness stretches like taffy with crackling fire the sole being considerate enough to answer her. Then, with a throat just as timid as hers, "Okay," you finally return. Here goes.

Tentatively, she gives the clustered fabric, and you gasp, fisting it. "...Where'd you find this?" Javi sprawls on your palm's plane. Except his mane you used to tousle is absent—nothing of that kid musing a ribbing quip to rile you up.

Just a figment of time, his shirt, that she bloodied.

For a bit, the horizontal army's dozing chorus, cocooned in their pillowed nests, fill the air and nothing from you—as if you'd sniff the blood her leg wept on it. She shrouds her bandaged limb beneath the sheets.

"Early this morning. Under some snow." When she conjured her ruse. "He's..." she meekly cups your trembling hand, unsure if it's welcomed. "He's gone, babe." She doesn't know—but she needs to see you nod. Nod to end wired nights, mindless probing to put Javi to rest.