Elvira moved far away, to a small town named Vaelmont, teaching small tricks to children
Although she laughed, it was never the same.
She never remarried
Never forgot.
She had loved once.
And that was enough.
Vergil stood watching as she sat in her chair, she was older — fragile.
She sipped her tea and whispered, "Maybe I'll see you both soon."
The memory shimmered, shifting once again.
To their first encounter.
Not the Vergil of know, but the one who stepped nervously towards her on the cobbled pavement as she sat on a bench.
He looked lost.
And Elvira couldn't understand a word he said.
His voice carried a strange cadence, before taking her a moment to realise: he wasn't speaking their language.
Her first instinct had been caution. Either he was from a secluded tribe or a fallen world.
And after he vomited.
Just like that, he understood her.
"…Do you know where the blacksmith is?" He asked politely, with a sheepish expression.
