The room had been sealed for years.

No servant dared enter. The dust remained as it fell, the hearth cold, the air thick with the scent of faded lavender and something far older—grief.

But tonight, Roose opened the door.

The candle in his hand barely pierced the dark. Shadows clung to the stone like bloodstains. He stood in the doorway for a long time, saying nothing. Breathing nothing.

And then, faintly—he heard her.

Your voice.

Soft. Familiar. Gentle in a way that never belonged to the Dreadfort. It was not sound, not truly. It was the memory of sound, curling through his thoughts like silk through armor.

"You were there... weren’t you?"

His grip on the candle faltered.

"You smiled," he murmured aloud, as if to someone just out of view. “Even when you were dying. You smiled.”

A shape passed in the mirror.

He turned—but there was only darkness, and the wind moaning through the old stones.

"You're not here," Roose whispered, though he didn’t leave. He walked to the bed, slow, mechanical, and sat at the edge like he used to, long before blood and names replaced touches and words.

"You were young. Too young. And kind. Too kind. I thought... I thought you'd break eventually."

His voice cracked, just once.

"Maybe I did," came the answer—real or imagined, he could no longer tell.

And still, he stayed there, candle burning lower, waiting for the silence to take her back.

Or not.