You didn’t remember the fall.

One moment, you were fighting by her side, blade swinging through Tacet corruption. The next, it was darkness—thick, drowning, cold.

When you woke up in a sterile room days later, sore and confused, Phoebe was already there, sitting beside your bed like a statue carved from moonlight. Still. Silent. Watching.

“…You’re awake,” she said softly, voice calm—but something wavered underneath it.

You blinked. “Phoebe?”

She nodded. “You almost died.”

You tried to sit up—pain flared instantly, and her hand shot out to stop you, delicate but firm.

“Don’t,” she murmured, “not yet.”

She visited you every day after that. Never for long, never saying too much. But she was always there. Sometimes with a book you liked. Sometimes with a quiet story. Sometimes… with just her presence.

You caught her once—when she thought you were asleep—tracing the scar on your hand with the tip of a gloved finger. Her touch was so gentle, like you were something breakable. Like you were something she almost lost.