The training ground was empty.
It was well past midnight — the kind of hour where even the wind moved quieter, like the world was holding its breath.
The moon hung high above, pale and distant, watching.
He didn't look at it.
He didn't look at anything.
His throat still ached from the scream he hadn't meant to let out. His eyes were puffy, raw from the sobs he had bitten into his own sleeves to muffle. His hands trembled slightly — from cold, maybe. From grief, definitely.
He stepped forward.
Picked up the wooden sword.
And paused.
His fingers lingered against the grip like they didn't belong there. Like the weight of it wasn't just wood — but everything else. The failure. The guilt. Her words.
He closed his eyes. Breathed in.
Lifted it.
Swung.
*"Again."*
The voice wasn't real. It couldn't be.
But it was clear. Sharp. Crisp. The kind of tone that didn't ask. It commanded.
He swung again. And again. And again.
*"Still wrong."*
The memories weren't coming back.
They were already here.
Each movement was one she had drilled into him. Each angle, each breath, each step.
*"Fix your stance."*
Swing.
*"You dropped your shoulder again. Do you want to die?"*
He gritted his teeth.
Swing.
*"That was pathetic."*
The sword blurred in his grip. His muscles burned. His lungs began to sting.
Swing.
*"Again."*
The word echoed. Not from the air — but from inside his skull.
*"Again."*
*"Again."*
*"Again."*
He swung harder. Just to silence her. Just to erase her voice, her eyes, her absence. But she was there. She was everywhere.
*"Again."
He roared and swung with everything left in him.
*"Again."
The sword cracked against the air one last time — and then, he couldn't take it anymore.
With a choked sound — half sob, half growl — he threw it.
The wood clattered against stone, loud and hollow.
He grabbed his head with both hands. His knees hit the ground. His fingers tangled in his own hair as if he could rip the memories out by force.
"No—stop it—stop—"
His voice was ragged. "That's enough. That's enough."
But it wasn't.
The silence rushed back in. The moon watched, indifferent.
He stayed there. Kneeling. Shaking.
Breathing like he'd just come back from drowning.
Then… slowly… like something in him had finally snapped quiet—
he slumped forward. Onto the cold ground.
Face to sky.
Breath uneven.
Eyes wide, glassy, lost.
He stared at the stars like they might forgive him.
Or maybe just take him.
He didn't cry.
Not this time.
He just lay there. Until the cold became numbness. Until the weight on his chest settled like fog.
And eventually — sleep found him.
Not gently. Not kindly.
But sleep nonetheless.