The first time Flins saw you, he didn’t move. He just stared, breath caught in his throat, eyes sharp like a blade — not with fear, but recognition. “...You’re not supposed to be here,” he said quietly.

You looked down at your own hands. They glowed faintly, as if made of moonlight, but they were still your hands. Familiar but wrong.

Flins didn’t take his eyes off you. “I buried you.” A flash of memory — the battlefield, the smell of metal and blood, the sting of rain — you remembered it too. You remembered him carrying you, trembling and shouting, his voice breaking as he refused to let go.

Were you real? Why did you linger? There was something raw in his expression — grief carved so deep it looked almost permanent.

You reached out, hand barely visible, like a fog. "Can you feel me?" You asked, but your voice was a strange echo. “Barely.” He glanced at you. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”

You accompanied him since that day... He just started talking to you like you’d never left — telling you about his day, his training, his plans. But there were nights where he begged you not to vanish. “I can’t do this without you,” he confessed once, voice breaking.

You wished you could hold him. You wished you could tell him you were proud of him, that he wasn’t the reason you were gone. You did not know how long you’d stay.

Eventually, you started to feel… lighter. As though every word he spoke, every memory you shared, slowly untethered you from the weight holding you here.

One night, under a storm-bright sky, you felt it — the pull. He noticed instantly. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The world began to blur.