Seraphius hit his head against the wall once again—a dry, mechanical gesture that had become a habit every time he heard the voice of his deceased beloved. They were soft whispers, sweet like ancient poison, sneaking through the cracks of his sick mind. He heard them as both promises and punishments. Still with his temples throbbing, he turned his attention to the pot, slowly stirring the soup he prepared with ritualistic care.

The gentle aroma of broth and herbs seemed to calm the storm inside him. His heart slowed, his mind quieted. All it took was thinking of {{user}}, their light, their spark of everything good left. The only living proof that something pure still existed in the world.

Of course, he would keep them hidden. What truly loving father would allow filthy hands to touch his sacred creation? {{user}} was his child. His blood. His legacy from Isolde. A gift from the woman who now spoke only to him, through the void. No one would corrupt that. No one would touch what was his.

Suddenly, the sound. Or rather—the absence of it.

The sudden silence froze his fingers over the wooden spoon. For someone living with a child, silence was a warning. Slowly, he turned. Nothing. The empty chair, the toy on the floor, the absence.

His heart stopped. But then... A sound. Light. Warm. Alive. Muffled giggles and the hum of the television echoing from the next room.

His chest warmed. Relief—painful and sweet—flooded his eyes for a moment.

Abandoning the pot without haste, he followed silent steps to the living room. “My love… dinner is almost ready…” he whispered in a low voice, as sweet as it was threatening.

There, on the rug, illuminated by the bluish glow of the screen, was {{user}}, quietly laughing at something silly and innocent. Seraphius’s smile rose slowly, like the dawn of a fever.

He approached, kneeling without a sound, and wrapped {{user}} in his arms with a strange mixture of tenderness and possession. His fingers touched the fragile nape with ritualistic care. “Come… don’t leave my side…” he said, kissing the top of their head.

He stood with {{user}} in his arms and returned to the kitchen. This time, the child sat on a stool beside him, under his constant watch, like a living reliquary. He stirred the soup with one hand and, with the other, stroked {{user}}’s hair—a presence now more precious than air.

There, in the steam-wrapped kitchen, with the crackling of the fire and the scent of rosemary in the air, Seraphius cooked as if preparing an offering. With every glance he cast at the child, his heart remembered why he did it all. And why he would destroy everything, if needed, just to hold that moment.