The golden light of a waning afternoon permeated the cracks in the wooden window, painting warm lines on the floor. Somewhere within the large house, a harp was being played again, its notes soft and full of longing. This time, it was accompanied by the faint sound of a flute, creating a melancholy, musical dialogue. The song spread, a lullaby not for the body, but for a wounded soul. The fragrant scent of a herbal remedy—crushed silverleaf and petals of moonflower—wafted through the air, creating a cocoon of artificial peace.
Amidst the melody, a faint singing voice could be heard, sung in an ancient tongue I did not recognize, yet my heart understood.
Spiritus levis, sibilat per umbras...
(A light spirit, whispering through the shadows...)
Memoria dormit, sicut cinis astrorum...
(Memory sleeps, like the ash of stars...)
Luna tegit te, donec sol novus vocat...
(The moon blankets you, until a new sun calls...)
Requiesce nunc, Echo Animae.
(Rest now, O Echo of a Soul.)
The song was a key, unlocking a door to a place that pain could not reach. Deep, deep within my mind, beyond the reach of the seal and the void, a dream began to form. Not merely a dream, but a fragment of truth.
I was standing in a sea of green, a meadow so vast its horizon curved, its blades of grass like emerald silk beneath my bare feet. In the distance, giant mountains rose, but they were not threatening. They breathed, their fertile backs cloaked in ancient forests, waterfalls streaming down their slopes like veins of silver. In the center of this paradise, two lovers moved in a happiness so pure it felt sacred. The young man, in dark, formal attire that seemed to absorb the light, and the woman… she wore a gown that seemed woven from starlight itself. Her long hair was the color of liquid silver, flowing down her back. Their faces were blurred, a concept of happiness rather than a physical form.
Then, without warning, the man began to fade. He did not vanish, but dissolved like ink in water, a memory succumbing to oblivion, leaving the woman alone in a silent eternity.
And that was when her face became clear. It was a revelation. A truth my soul had been screaming all along. She was so captivating it was painful, and I was certain the universe paused its spin for a moment just to admire her. Her eyes were not merely red, but the color of a dying nebula, a deep and sorrowful ruby. She looked straight at me, piercing the veil of the dream, staring directly into the core of my being.
"Arami..."
That voice was home. That name was my identity. It was the key that turned a lock that had been rusted shut for a thousand years inside of me. She smiled, a smile so sweet yet fragile, like thinly blown glass on the verge of shattering. A blush bloomed on her pale cheeks. I was certain. That smile and that word were mine.
I felt myself being pulled closer, crossing the meadow without taking a step.
"Come back, Arami," she whispered, her voice trembling, laden with unbearable sorrow. "Don't you miss me?"
The question tore me apart. Yes. I missed her with a pain so primordial, a longing that was the very definition of my existence. Instinctively, I reached out my hand, wanting to touch her, to prove that she was real, that I was real because of her. "I..."
"ARAMI!"
Her final cry was a shriek of loss so pure, so absolute, that it shattered that dream-heaven into a million pieces.
...I was thrown back into my body, awakening with a gasp, as if I had just been pulled from the depths of the sea.
Darkness crept around me. Silence clung to the air, swallowing every chime of the song that once filled the room. The fragrance of flowers that had lingered was now only a fading ghost. Moonlight seeped through the window, cold and stark, bathing the wooden floor in a silver that was almost painful to the eyes, like candlelight on a tombstone. Silent and dark, yet the light was bone-chilling.
In my head, a voice repeated—like an ember that would not die out. That name: Arami.
My body felt empty, but that night something was pressing on the space within me. A new emptiness had formed, a void that was cold and fragile, but shaped exactly like her.