Years passed.
The world changed, as it always does.
Storms faded. Skies healed.
The moons, once shattered, returned—
though never quite the same.
And somewhere, deep in the folds of time and shadow,
a shrine bloomed like memory.
Hidden from all but the most devoted,
it revealed itself only beneath twin eclipses—
when sun and moon brushed the edge of heaven,
when balance trembled like breath on a blade.
Inside, there were no prayers.
No offerings.
Only silence.
At its heart stood a statue—
a fox and a serpent,
curled not in battle…
but in harmony.
Wound around each other like memory and fire.
At the statue's base:
a leather-bound journal.
Worn. Weathered.
No name. No title.
But inside…
a single sentence written in fading ink:
> "Even if you don't believe… I will still protect you."
---
He visits, sometimes.
The boy with the dragon's fire.
Your friend.
The one who lost his faith—
and found it again in your light.
He never lights incense.
Never speaks to the spirits.
He just stands beneath the moon
hands buried in his coat,
eyes lost to stars and memory.
And sometimes… when no one is watching…
He whispers:
> "I never stopped loving you, you know.
Because when I saw your eyes, that tim—"
But the words always break.
---
Still… he remembers.
He still feels the pull of the moons.
Still hears your voice in eclipse dreams.
Still keeps your name—and your light—inside him.
---
And somewhere, beneath time and myth—
The fox sleeps.
Not gone.
Not forgotten.
Only waiting.
For the world to need its fire again.
---
But further east—
beyond the horizon's curve—
something stirs.
A whisper of scales.
A voice that does not belong.
The old balance cracking beneath a darker will.
The eclipse will return.
And with it—
so will he.
---
THE END.
…but the moon has not yet shown its final light.
---