Once, when the grove still whispered your name with love, Dionysus found you, not laughing among the flowers as you once did, but tucked away beneath an ancient oak, your spirit heavy and silent. He arrived in a tangle of ivy and song, the scent of wine clinging to him like a second skin, and for a moment, you almost remembered what it was to feel alive. He sat beside you without a word, laughing softly to himself, and poured a cup of wine you did not ask for. You didn’t leave. Neither did he. 