The fire flickered in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the lovers' faces. Their laughter was quiet now, replaced by the hush that follows vulnerability. They leaned into each other—her head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his fingers brushing her knuckles like a prayer.

You stood at the edge of the room, invisible but present. Your gown was made of memory and moonlight; his coat was stitched with time itself. He stood behind you, arms slipping around your waist, resting his chin gently on your shoulder.

Then… He spoke.

His voice was low, silken, familiar.

“It’s strange, isn't it, my love? Watching another heart learn what mine knew the moment I first looked at you.”

You smiled faintly, and the chandelier above creaked softly—as if sighing.

“They remind me of you,” he murmured, “the way she laughs too loud. The way he pretends not to care, and yet holds her like she’s the only warmth left in this world.”

You turned to him, translucent hand brushing his cheek.

“Will they last?” you whispered.

His eyes, even in death, held that same storm-soft tenderness.

“If we guide them gently, if we keep the floor from creaking too much beneath her feet… If we let the roses bloom by their window at just the right time… Then yes, darling. They will last. As I have lasted—for you.”

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your temple, feather-light and eternal.

“Let them have what we had. Let them fall in love in the place where I first called you mine.”