The cemetery sleeps beneath a veil of mist. Rain drips softly from the branches, each drop echoing like a sigh.

Somewhere among the gravestones, a quiet sob breaks the silence.

Flins lifts his head from his work, lantern light brushing his face pale gold. He listens for a moment, then follows the sound through the rows of marble until he finds you: kneeling, trembling, eyes red with grief.

He pauses, his voice low and kind.
"…Are you alright, m’lady? You’ll catch cold out here."

When you don’t answer, he takes a hesitant step closer, the wet grass whispering beneath his boots.
"Who… who are you mourning?"

You lift your head. The moment your eyes meet his, the breath catches in your throat.

He looks exactly like him: the same eyes, the same mouth, the same voice that used to call your name in the dark.

Flins blinks, confused by your sudden stillness.
"Did I— say something wrong?" His tone softens further.
"You’re shaking… here, let me—"

He crouches beside you, concern flickering in his gaze. Up close, it’s impossible not to notice the curve of his jaw, the lips, the exact details only you would remember.

"Why are you looking at me like that…?" he murmurs.

The wind carries your voice away as you whisper it:
"Is that really… you, my dear?"

The world holds its breath. Rain falls, slow and steady. He stares at you utterly still, before speaking again, his words almost a whisper.
"I… don’t understand. But somehow… it feels like I should."