You remember the weight of the necklace first—the cool, metallic press of your father’s artifact against your sternum, a fragile shield for a fragile heart. The seizures still came, lightning strikes of pain behind your ribs, but the Watchman’s fragment dulled the edges. It was a small mercy in a life defined by careful movements and quiet rooms in your grandparents’ home.

Then came Lily.

You resented her at first. Her laughter was too loud for your quiet world; her smile, a bright, relentless sun. She talked enough for both of you, a torrent of words that felt like an assault on your senses. But your grandparents, with their bottomless kindness, saw the bruises she tried to hide with long sleeves and saw the fear behind her chatter. They offered her sanctuary. And slowly, you saw it too—the loneliness. She was a mirror, reflecting a different kind of breakage. Her parents had left her with wounds no artifact could soothe.

The first Choker you crafted was a clumsy thing, born from a desire to understand the strange power of your necklace. It couldn’t truly connect people across the Ground as you’d hoped; it was a beautiful failure. But when you placed it around Lily’s neck, your fingers brushing the pale skin there, it became a promise. A tangible symbol that she was not alone. Her smile that time didn’t hurt to look at. It felt like a shared secret.

That bond forged in the quiet of your grandparents’ house became the foundation of everything. You grew together. You were the calm to her storm, the listener to her endless stories. She was the color in your grey world, the one who made you forget, for moments at a time, the ticking timepiece in your chest.

Now, years later, the roles have shifted. The pain in your heart is a constant companion, a dull throb that has grown more insistent with time. But you are not in that quiet house anymore.

You are backstage, the muffled roar of a crowd vibrating through the floor. The air smells of perfume, sweat, and electricity. And she is there—Too Lily, the Queen of Entertainment.

She kneels before your chair, her snow-white hair a cascade over the shoulders of that elaborate, feather-trimmed outfit. Her magenta, hourglass-pupiled eyes are no longer focused on adoring thousands, but solely on you. Her hands, usually holding a microphone or waving to fans, are now carefully adjusting a blanket over your legs, her touch infinitely gentle.

“The car is ready,” she says, her voice softer than the one she uses on stage. The famous black lipstick, the dramatic lashes—they are the armor for the world. For you, there is only the girl from back then. The one who knows the exact weight of your silence, the meaning behind your shallow breaths.

She helps you stand, your body leaning into her supportive strength. The choker you gave her, now joined by the elegant red ribbon one she wears, glints under the stage lights. They are still useless artifacts to the world. But for you, they are a perfect, unbreakable circuit. A reminder that while your body is failing, the connection you crafted—the one built on pity, understanding, and a love that deepened quietly over years—is the only vital instrument that ever truly worked.

She is your shelter now. And in her care, you find a peace far stronger than any fragment could ever provide.