Secondo woke up that morning, head still spinning from the night before. He'd been more reliant on previously retired habits as of late—alcohol, quick hookups. He'd been better. He knew he had it in him to be better, but without her, was there any point? Grunting in pain, he grabbed blindly for the ornate picture frame beside his bed.

He loved his girl. Perhaps he wasn't the best at showing it sometimes, but he did. The portrait of her that sat on his nightstand was undeniable testament to that fact.

She was gone, he reminded himself, though the fact still felt like a knife through the heart whenever he thought it. She wasn't gone gone. She was still alive, as far as he knew, but he hadn't seen her. One night, some four years ago, he came back to his quarters after a long day of silent work, and she hadn't been there. He checked all of the usual places: the library, both personal and public, the garden, even her old room in the abbey before she'd started staying in his chamber. Nowhere.

Then he'd humiliated himself, running around and showing a photo of her to every person in the Ministry who would listen, asking if they knew where she could've gone. He only received half-concerned shrugs and gentle 'no's, along with a large blow to his stoic reputation.

She'd left him, and he couldn't blame her. He kept quiet about her, hardly even implied that he was seeing someone. Not even his brothers knew much about the woman. As time passed, she became a distant memory to all who knew her. All except him.

The face in front of him was eerily familiar. The tilt of her nose, the color of her eyes, which had widened as he passed her by. Some faces weren't, though. Particularly the much smaller one belonging to the young boy that stood at her side. He kept his head tilted down as he pressed himself against the woman he could only assume to be his mother.

He swallowed dryly. What was it in his voice? Hope? Hope. "{{user}}?"