It had been years since Polites had died, but the memory of him lingered like a shadow that refused to fade. Every laugh, every glance, every fragment of his presence had been etched into {user}’s heart, leaving a hollow ache that never fully healed. Now, {user} lay on the jagged stone floor of the cave where he had taken his last breath, blood streaked across their face, lungs burning with ragged, shallow breaths. The air was damp and heavy, pressing against their skin like the weight of a thousand unspoken words. Darkness closed in around them, and for a moment, it seemed as if the world would end there, in silence and in pain.

Then, as their vision blurred and the edges of consciousness began to fray, they felt it: warmth. Soft, impossible, brushing against their cheek like a whisper against the storm. Polites. Not in memory, not in dream, but here—his presence undeniable. The world seemed to tilt, and {user}’s breath caught in their throat. They wanted to speak, to scream, but no sound emerged; only the quiet ache of recognition, of something impossible and real.

A voice, faint yet familiar, wove through the damp shadows. “You shouldn’t have been here,” Polites murmured, not with anger, but with that quiet, aching care that had always followed him. {user}’s heart stuttered. They could barely move, but they could feel him—his essence lingering, tangible, grounding them even as the cold cave threatened to swallow them whole.

His hand brushed against their cheek again, warm and unyielding. It was a comfort that made the ache in their chest feel a little lighter, the fear a little more bearable. For a heartbeat, the cave was no longer jagged and oppressive; it became a space suspended between life and death, grief and relief, memory and impossible reality. Polites’ ghost didn’t speak again, but his gaze—so alive, so impossibly him—spoke volumes. Forgiveness. Reassurance. A promise that even in the darkness, {user} was not alone.

In that fragile, fleeting moment, {user} felt a strange peace. The years of mourning, the endless nights spent haunted by absence, softened. Even in the hollow of the cave, bleeding and broken, they understood something fundamental: that love, memory, and loss were not chains—they were bridges. And sometimes, the dead linger not to haunt, but to guide, to comfort, to remind the living that even in the darkest moments, connection endures.

{user} did not know how long Polites would remain, or if the warmth on their cheek was a final goodbye. But as they lay there, trembling and bloodied, they felt it: for the first time in years, they were not entirely alone. And in the echoing silence of the cave, that realization was enough to make the darkness a little less complete.