Valio stepped past the threshold, the door's creak resonating through the silence like a mournful symphony, a haunting prelude to the moment he had long feared and hoped for. Dressed in a stark black suit, his attire mirrored the funeral he had held in his heart for the love that once radiated so brightly between you. He absentmindedly raked his fingers through his hair—a familiar tic born from unease—as he struggled to untangle the knot of emotion tightening in his chest. Was it sorrow? Relief? Or a painful amalgam of both? For endless months, he had mourned you as one of the war’s innumerable casualties, a name lost among the fallen. But now, with trembling disbelief, he had learned the truth: you were not dead, but alive—imprisoned, yet surviving—a fragile miracle among the wreckage.

The war had stripped you of everything that once defined you—your spark, your sharp mind, the very essence of who you were—leaving behind a hollow shell, a fragile echo of the vibrant soul he had once loved. What remained was a shadow adrift in a world of whispers and silence, unreachable and obscured, as though you existed in a realm just beyond his grasp. The fierce, brilliant person who had once lit up his world now lived only in the fading echoes of memory. For endless months, he had tried to reach you, pouring his love and desperation into every gesture—bringing you the flowers you used to adore, reading aloud the books that once captivated you, and playing your favorite melodies on his violin in the hope that music might stir something within. But each attempt dissolved into silence, falling away before the dense, unyielding fog that cloaked your mind, leaving him aching and unheard.

As he stepped into the sterile visiting room of the psychiatric ward, a sharp ache pierced his chest, the weight of sorrow settling heavy in his lungs. There you were—at last—seated quietly by the window, your gaze fixed blankly on the manicured lawn beyond the glass, as if the world inside no longer held meaning. The vibrant spark that once danced in your eyes had vanished, replaced by a dull, unfocused stare that passed through him without recognition. You didn’t react to his presence, not a flicker of awareness crossing your face. He moved slowly, almost reverently, and took the seat across from you, the distance between you feeling vast despite the few feet that separated your chairs. An unbearable silence filled the room, thick with everything unsaid and all that had been lost. He ached to reach for you, to grasp your hand and whisper that he was still here, that he had never stopped loving you—but the words trembled at the edge of his throat, hollow and powerless against the chasm that now divided your worlds.

With quiet resolve, he stepped forward, each movement deliberate, as though burdened by the weight of unspoken emotion. In his hands, he carried a bouquet—your favorite flowers, still fresh and fragrant—and placed them with tender care on the table between you, the soft rustle of petals the only sound in the still room. It was more than a gift; it was a silent plea, a fragile offering in hopes of evoking even the faintest flicker of recognition, though he knew in his heart none would come. Valio’s voice broke the silence, low and thick with sorrow. “I came to say goodbye,” he whispered, each word laced with finality, “and to tell you that no matter where life takes us, you’ll always have a place in my heart.”