In the quiet of twilight, as the last streaks of pink bled into the Italian sky, Marcus sat at the grand piano in the southern wing of Volterra’s keep. The melody he played was delicate — wistful, almost broken — each note curling through the air like smoke, twisting and searching, never quite resolving. You stood by the arched window, arms crossed loosely, watching the fading light with narrowed eyes, your expression unreadable as always. Silent, detached, and impossibly far away, even though you were only a few feet from him.

Then he spoke, gently — as though continuing a conversation from a century ago.

“You used to braid violets into your hair… right before the spring equinox. Said it helped you sleep.”

You turned to look at him slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, the sharp red of them flickering in the dying light like coals beneath ash. “Wait,” you said, voice soft and low, “you remembered that?”

He didn’t turn his head, only let his fingers linger a little longer on the final key before letting the sound fade into stillness.

“Of course I did,” Marcus replied, finally looking at you. His gaze was unreadable, as always — ancient, patient, and slow-burning — but not unfeeling. “You told me on the third night after I turned you. You were wearing that torn linen robe from your old cult, the one with ash stains on the hem. You still smelled like fire and blood and clove oil.” His tone was flat, but behind it was something molten. “You’d gone out and picked them alone, even though you weren’t used to being undead yet. You came back with your hands full of crushed petals and dirt, furious that your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.”

You stared at him, silent.

“You put them in your hair and refused to speak to me for the rest of the night,” he added, a faint trace of amusement slipping into his voice like wine through water. “Then slept for three days straight. I sat by the window and watched your heart not beat.”

Your expression twisted, somewhere between a scoff and a blink of reluctant warmth. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I always noticed,” Marcus said simply, leaning back on the bench. “I have seen gods die, kingdoms fall, and yet I remember the exact way your fingers looked, stained purple from the stems. That scent—” he inhaled faintly, “—still clings to you. Beneath all that power, beneath the necromancy, the lives you’ve clawed back from hell, there is still a girl who braided violets into her hair to stop screaming in her sleep.”

You exhaled slowly, crossing the room, letting your fingers brush against his arm. “Sometimes I forget she existed.”

“I never have,” Marcus murmured. “You are my mate, my queen — the daughter of devils, but still… still the only thing that makes this cursed immortality feel like a life.”

And though your eyes narrowed again, there was no fire behind them this time — only something brittle and unspoken, something old and deeply buried.

“…Hmph,” you muttered, sitting beside him. “You really remembered all that.”

“I remember everything about you,” he said, and this time, his voice was a whisper. “Especially the things you want me to forget.”