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.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwoG6tSDO3P
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.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcSmgR27g0i
He dreams.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpQUAtbZgcz
He forgets to question why.
A diary. Torn pages.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu8hcfiKG1O
A note in a stranger’s handwriting.
A yellow flower.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH1a2obUTAg
On the steps.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp7Hz0QEt8Z
Again.
He touches it.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOQBnFIT0BL
His hand shakes.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfkUiHcIDzl
Why?
He dreams.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdDBQnGi97x
A lantern-lit sky.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTS9ZPL8gO2
A girl’s laughter.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡANlJyakknv
His name in her mouth like it belonged there.
Marigold.
He wakes.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpZtNsLOu6L
He forgets again.
The house in the hills has no door, but he knows it’s his.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwPOp5KmHVn
There’s music on the record player that skips every seventh bar.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ53ESQkBd8a
The attic is locked.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZODGH2emKd
The key is under a painting, signed “M.”
He doesn’t remember her.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs6D0ld0Uze
But he misses her anyway.
He runs his hand over the name in the wood:202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOYjnAf3sui
Aime + M.
His knees go weak.
And then—202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcTEoaxJYwi
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.202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUUvBsXTSgq
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 know202Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLBYWIQcKCT
she was never truly forgotten.
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