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.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwQBcezQFOC
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.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCZSnLGJJ31
He dreams.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRObmZ1U856
He forgets to question why.
A diary. Torn pages.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfHrF4pdxjt
A note in a stranger’s handwriting.
A yellow flower.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxK3dayq4Tg
On the steps.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡksXeTiXPNO
Again.
He touches it.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnw7IkpJXyf
His hand shakes.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFvMM3Qqc9Q
Why?
He dreams.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs7qG0AxVjA
A lantern-lit sky.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzm0RkSMlij
A girl’s laughter.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMGK7feihm1
His name in her mouth like it belonged there.
Marigold.
He wakes.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOwGs3r2O1O
He forgets again.
The house in the hills has no door, but he knows it’s his.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYPkXCEDoUi
There’s music on the record player that skips every seventh bar.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1lMxnOn0ir
The attic is locked.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3Pr5dwpXxG
The key is under a painting, signed “M.”
He doesn’t remember her.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEvUd8DEocm
But he misses her anyway.
He runs his hand over the name in the wood:114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtEP8a4xBih
Aime + M.
His knees go weak.
And then—114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEVvmhKrOMt
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.114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ95w7Mw5zLz
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 know114Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxs0brvsS6q
she was never truly forgotten.
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