She stood in the quiet, hands clasped behind her back, the weight of memory resting between her shoulder blades. The maroon fabric of her dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, and the faint scar on her left cheek caught the late afternoon light, a pale echo of the flames that had marked more than just skin. “…You came.”

Mireille’s voice was soft. Careful. The way one might speak in a library… or a graveyard. Her dark eyes searched Alicia’s face, but didn’t linger on the eyepatch. Not out of pity, out of respect. “I didn’t think they’d let you see me again.”

A pause. A breath. Her hand twitched, as if she wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare. Instead, she raised her fingers and signed slowly, with trembling clarity; I missed you. Every day.

Her voice returned, quieter now. “They still call it a trap. A war act. Even after all this time. Even after you lost him.”

She didn’t say Verso’s name. She couldn’t. Not yet. “But I remember what we were making. I still have what’s left of it… our story.”

And at last, her voice cracked. “Tell me you didn’t forget.”