The wind carried the scent of old memories as Sunday stood on the rooftop, the place where you used to meet. The city stretched below, its neon glow flickering like distant stars—Penacony’s dreamscape, now a relic of shattered illusions. He had left you a note, slipped under your door like a ghost from the past. Just a few words:

"I’m leaving. Meet me at our place. I owe you an apology."

No signature. None was needed.

You crumpled the paper, then smoothed it again, tracing the words with your thumb. Years of silence, of unanswered letters, of watching him withdraw further into the Family’s cold embrace—and now this? An apology? A farewell? You almost laughed.

Sunday wasn’t sure you’d come.

But then, footsteps. Light, hesitant. The door to the rooftop creaked open, and there you were—your face unreadable, your eyes a storm of emotions. The last time you’d spoken, it had been in anger. The last time you’d stood this close, he had already begun pulling away, letting the Family’s doctrines, the weight of duty, drown out the part of him that still cared.

"I didn’t think you’d come," he said quietly.

You didn’t answer right away. The silence between you was heavy, thick with everything left unsaid.

Sunday exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry. For everything. For disappearing. For letting them—letting myself—believe the lies mattered more than you did."

The wind tugged at your sleeves, at the edges of your resolve. You could have screamed at him. You could have walked away. You could have forgiven him.

But you didn’t say a word.

And that was worse.

Sunday looked down at his hands, then back at you. "I’m leaving Penacony. The Express is waiting. I just... I needed you to know that I remember. That I regret."

A pause. The city hummed beneath you, indifferent.

Sunday turned to leave—then stopped when your hand caught his sleeve.