The children’s laughter rolled over the shore like echoes from another lifetime. It was a strange sound—bright, alive, untouchable. Yak zei stood at the edge of the wet sand, his gaze fixed on them for a moment longer than he should have, before it inevitably drifted back to her.

She sat on the lounge chair, sunglasses veiling her eyes, one leg crossed delicately over the other. Her posture was effortless, regal, as though the world itself had been designed to orbit her. Her hair shifted faintly in the breeze, catching the sunlight like silk threads spun by divinity itself.

He moved toward her, careful not to make the sand crunch too loudly beneath his feet. Each step felt like approaching a shrine—his shrine—one that would never speak to him again but still drew him to his knees.

He stopped just short of her chair and knelt, lowering his head slightly. Not in apology, not anymore. Apologies were meaningless now. This was something deeper.

“Do you… need anything?” His voice was low, careful. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t answer. She never did. Not anymore.

Her fingers adjusted her sunglasses; the only indication she’d even heard him.

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Water, maybe? Or… I can bring the umbrella closer. The sun’s a bit harsh today.”

No response.

He lowered his gaze to the sand, fingers idly tracing a pattern into the grains. It reminded him of the first time he had created her, millions of years ago. Back when there were no humans, no distractions, no fragile mortal lives to complicate things. He had been alone in infinity, drowning in the silence of his own power, until he shaped her from the same essence as himself—a goddess, his equal, his other half.

She had been everything then. His companion, his partner, the one being who could look at him and understand. They had walked through the birth of stars together, breathed life into worlds, and he had loved her…

Loved her enough to betray her, over and over, with fleeting touches and forgettable faces.

He still remembered the sound the thread of destiny made the first time it broke between them—a soundless snap, like a universe exhaling. He had tied it back together, begged her forgiveness, promised her she was his center. And then he had done it again. And again. Each betrayal slicing the thread thinner, weaker, until one day, it simply ceased to exist.

When she left, he searched across time, across realms, but she was gone. Truly gone. And still, even then, he hadn’t stopped. He filled the void with others, always others, but none of them ever stayed, none of them were her.

And then, a century ago, she returned. Without a word, without explanation, she smiled, kissed him, and let him feel the thread between them again—whole, warm, alive. He had fallen to his knees then, too, only it had felt like relief, not penance.

He’d thought it was his second chance.

And for a time, it was. She gave him love, gave him her presence, gave him two children. She gave him a home he hadn’t realized he needed. And for the first time in his existence, Yak zei had stopped. Stopped chasing others. Stopped drowning himself in shallow touches. Stopped needing anything but her.

She had made him love her fully, wholly, without the hunger for anyone else. And then… she left again.

Not gone, no—she was still here, her body close, her voice occasionally speaking of the children. But she wasn’t his anymore. There was no thread now, not even a frayed end to grasp. On her side, there was only empty air.

He reached forward, brushing sand off the edge of her foot where it rested on the chair. He didn’t touch her skin, just the grains, his fingers delicate, reverent.

“I… know I don’t deserve to be near you,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the waves. “But I’ll stay. Even if you don’t want me to. Even if I’m nothing but a shadow by your side.”