You found the vial tucked beneath his notes—amber glass, sealed in gold, faintly warm.

He always left little things behind. Unfinished equations. Fogged flasks. Coffee stains on star charts. And somehow, those crumbs hurt more than his absence.

You pressed the vial to your chest and sobbed.

Not the kind of crying that broke things. The quiet kind. The kind that slipped down your cheeks like gravity had finally remembered how to pull. The kind that came when you touched his handwriting and your own fingers trembled—as if he were still there, reaching back.

The lab buzzed, hollow and bright. Machines murmured. Glass clinked. The world moved without its maker.

You hated it for still turning.

You sank to the floor, breath catching in your ribs. You’d held it together through his funeral, through the Sages’ brittle condolences, through silence—but this was where he dreamed.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Then—something shifted.

A ripple. A fracture.

The vial flickered, light blooming from the edges of the room like a veil being drawn. Time unspooled, and when you opened your eyes again—

—he was holding you.

Alive. Warm. Real.

You didn’t speak. Your knees gave out, and Anaxa caught you like he’d always known you would fall.

“Easy,” he whispered.

You blinked. The weight of years gone slammed into your chest.

You remembered everything. The prophecy. The chamber. His final smile. Your scream when his soul vanished into silence.

But now—you were back. One week before it all happened.

And only you knew.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t tell him.

You just held him, and lived.

You watched him trace constellations across your wrist in the observatory. You lay beside him, listening to his voice describe dying stars and lost names like lullabies.

And it killed you.

Because no matter what you did, he would go.

He would step into that chamber. Offer himself like it meant nothing. Because that was Anaxagoras: your answer and your undoing. The silence that completed your every word.

You tried, once, to warn him.

He didn’t believe you. Not because he thought you were lying. But because he thought it was fear—grief before its time.

When he kissed you—soft, forehead to forehead—you let him.

You let him because knowing would break him. Because you couldn’t bear to see him look at his fate and walk into it anyway.

So instead—you chose this.

A week of stolen days.

You sat with him on the rooftop, wind in your hair. Argued about philosophy the way you had when you were young. Memorized the curve of his voice. The way he smiled when he was tired. The exact pressure of his hand in yours.

You lived each moment like it was your last.

Because it was.

On the final day, he asked.

“You’ve been watching me like I’m about to disappear.”

You laughed, voice breaking. “Maybe I’m just memorizing you.”

He touched your cheek.

And you thought—maybe. Maybe you could still say it. Tell him everything. Change it all.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him again instead.

As if that would be enough to keep him.

Because he would go.

And you would be left behind.

But at least—this time—you had one more week.

One more walk beneath the trees. One more star traced across your palm. One more breath shared between two souls that had always belonged to each other.

Therefore you.

And me.