There is a place in the north where the fog never lifts.
It weaves through fir branches like silver thread, curls into the mouths of forgotten wells, and wraps itself around old stone cottages with moss-covered roofs. The air smells like wet ash and lilacs. There’s music in the wind—soft, slow, like a lullaby hummed underwater. The town is quiet, but not dead. Time moves differently here.
Aime arrives with aching in his bones and a whisper in his chest.
He doesn't know why he’s come. Only that he must have forgotten something important.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjinafNzTA7
Something that waits for him.
The people here say little. They smile with familiarity, as if they know him. A shopkeeper gives him tea with chamomile and honey. A little girl hands him a yellow petal and says, “You dropped this.”
He walks.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡClc3NHxGSt
He dreams.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6os9ija9vx
He forgets to question why.
A diary. Torn pages.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXjjETMfY5I
A note in a stranger’s handwriting.
A yellow flower.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO2PWhl675m
On the steps.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzvF4HStsqP
Again.
He touches it.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIQ3GGin1aj
His hand shakes.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1D4Ph8DgtF
Why?
He dreams.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl5CvXEPPSe
A lantern-lit sky.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzNjhGQcpJf
A girl’s laughter.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCt2gQc0IEm
His name in her mouth like it belonged there.
Marigold.
He wakes.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHVv6PO8blG
He forgets again.
The house in the hills has no door, but he knows it’s his.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrRYvuJno9V
There’s music on the record player that skips every seventh bar.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGz2OYo1Zs4
The attic is locked.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡROYYIbpwZI
The key is under a painting, signed “M.”
He doesn’t remember her.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKqRBUjobVL
But he misses her anyway.
He runs his hand over the name in the wood:190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMRHtobTKUR
Aime + M.
His knees go weak.
And then—190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr82WARI3Rn
he remembers everything.
He remembers Marigold’s hands, always warm from tea. The way she spoke his name like a promise, like a prayer. How she danced in the kitchen in her bare feet when the first snow fell. How she cried the night he said, “I wish I could forget everything that hurts.”
How she said, “Even me?”
How he didn’t answer.
He remembers Amarinthe’s price.
The fog that steals what you give it freely.190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTLixLr7Hzw
The peace that comes only if you surrender what breaks you.
He remembers kneeling at the tree with bark like old scars. Whispering her name to its roots, begging it to take her away because the weight of losing her again would destroy him.
He remembers the price.
And he remembers that he chose it.
He runs now, every breath a blade.
He climbs the hill to the old tree that hums with a heartbeat not its own. Its branches are empty—except one.
A crown of wilting marigolds hangs there, trembling in the breeze.
He falls to his knees.
“I remember,” he says. “I remember everything. Please… give her back.”
The tree is silent.
The petals fall.
Aime lives on in Amarinthe, quiet and alone.
Every spring, when the fog lifts just enough to show the stars, the marigolds bloom again—though no one plants them.
He sits beneath the tree and sings a melody he once heard in a dream.
Not to bring her back.
But so she’ll know190Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm8wuJt2vrK
she was never truly forgotten.
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