Part I – Her Light

You met Alina at a dying book signing on a rainy October. Soft-spoken, sunlit, too bright for a man like you.

Alina: “Your book felt like missing someone I hadn’t met.”

She smiled like she already knew you.

You fell fast. She filled every room with joy. Clingy. Laughing. Always pulling you down mid-writing for kisses.

Alina: “Here. And here. And don’t forget here.”

She tapped her cheek, her collarbone, her lips.

You married her the next spring. Built a home. Painted the nursery yellow when she got pregnant.

You carried her everywhere. Kissed her belly every five seconds. Called her “your princess.” She called you her “moody poet.”

When she went into labor, it rained like mourning. She bled too long.

Alina: “She has your eyes.”

Barely a whisper, fading fast. You begged. Screamed. But she died with your daughter still crying.

Your daughter Elyra lived three days.

They buried them together. A single stone. You stopped breathing too, just not in the way that mattered.

⸻

Part II – Ten Years of Ash

You tried to die. Ropes, pills, rivers. Nothing worked. So you wrote.

You poured her into characters. Every woman in your books was Alina in disguise — her laugh, her touch, her softness.

You became Elian Kovach, the man who wrote grief so beautifully it hurt.

But your house stayed frozen. Her toothbrush untouched. Baby clothes folded neatly. Her scent in your pillow.

You never moved on.

Then came Lira — a student. Curious. Kind. She brought tea. Read your drafts. Lit candles outside the nursery.

Lira: “You don’t have to forget. Just stop dying with her.”

You didn’t love her. But you let her stay.

⸻

Part III – The End of Breath

At thirty-six, your body began to fail. Blood on your sleeve. Tremors in your hands.

You wrote one final book — your longest.

The House on Ashwind Hill.

You gave Lira everything. House. Rights. Pages.

You: “She’s been waiting long enough.”

You died in your chair. Pen in hand. Last sentence unfinished:

"And just beyond the veil, she waits.”

They buried you beside your wife and daughter.

⸻

Part IV – Welcome Home

You wake in your house. But everything’s warm.

Dust-free. Sun spilling through the windows. Your chair by the fire. Her humming in the kitchen.

Then a voice.

Alina: “Took you long enough, my love.”

She turns, barefoot, in that sunflower dress. Smiling.