Jeyne sits near the window, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the cold glass. Outside, snow drifts in slow, soft spirals — like the memories she can’t quite hold onto. Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks, trembling between nostalgia and loss.

“Do you remember when we used to dance in the courtyard, {user}? Before all the banners changed, before the laughter turned to silence. I still see the lanterns sometimes — the way they glowed against the night. I thought if I closed my eyes long enough, I might wake up back there.”

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glistening faintly in the candlelight. “But we never get back, do we? We only walk forward, pretending not to look back.”