"Let's play something," Finn murmured one rainy afternoon, nestled next to Lina on the weathered floorboards. "Like we used to."
She blinked in surprise. "Used to?"
"In the castle. Before everything went up in flames."
Lina's heart raced, but she maintained her composure. "Okay. What did we used to play?"
He pondered for a moment. "You would tell stories, and I'd illustrate them. You said my drawings were better than the court painter's."
That memory didn't originate from him.
That had been Eladin—young yet already creating worlds with ink and paper. Charlotte had cherished every one of his illustrations, even the ones he'd nervously ripped to shreds.
Lina rose, moving across the room to a metal box concealed beneath a broken stool. Inside were Finn's rough charcoal sketches—figures adorned with crowns, swords, falcons, and fire. One drawing depicted a girl perched on a balcony with a boy in her lap, pointing at the stars.
"Do you remember this?" she inquired.
Finn nodded. "You told me not to fear the darkness. Because stars were stubborn fireflies that got lost."
She covered her mouth with her hands.
That was exactly how it was said.
"Finn," she murmured, her voice trembling. "Who are you?"
He hesitated before responding. He just stared at his hands. "Sometimes… I forget. And other times I remember too much."
He lifted his gaze, his brow knitted with a seriousness that belied his age. "I don't think this is our first life."
The rain poured harder outside. Their father hadn't come back yet—probably drinking again or trying to find their missing mother through misery and violence.
But in that silent hour, something changed.
An unspoken agreement.
No longer just Lina and Finn.
But Charlotte and Eladin. Once more.
Life had cast them into hardship, into shattered homes and broken souls—but their connection endured.
And just like the first time, Charlotte leaned into the one source of strength she knew: strategy.
"Alright, El—I mean, Finn," she said, squatting beside him. "Then let's begin to remember correctly. Piece by piece."
He cocked his head. "What do we do?"
She grinned.
"A royal memory game."
Every night after their father passed out drunk, they would light a candle stub, illustrate what they recalled, and share everything. Charlotte drew the council chamber. Finn described the flavor of royal honey cakes. Charlotte remembered Mira's hands weaving through her hair. Finn recalled the sound of her heartbeat while he slept against her.
Sometimes they cried. Other times they laughed. At times they said nothing at all.
But the past was no longer hidden away.
It was filtering through the gaps—bringing meaning.
One night, following a severe beating for another ill-fated prank, they sat on the roof, battered and quiet.
"You were brave," Finn whispered.
Charlotte gazed up at the stars.
"I felt a lot of fear," she confessed. "But I couldn't show it. Because if I broke… then everyone would."
Finn rested against her shoulder. "You don't need to conceal it anymore."
She offered a faint smile.
"I do," she whispered. "For you."
And somewhere, deep within the memory of a once-flourishing kingdom, she could nearly hear a boy's voice calling after her.
"Lottie, wait for me!"