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.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxJNMyFoKGI
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.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqANQHE539J
He dreams.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRw5LLss0Sz
He forgets to question why.
A diary. Torn pages.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjk2l9wsPPc
A note in a stranger’s handwriting.
A yellow flower.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXP8xVvf56L
On the steps.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYK6V4pQEUi
Again.
He touches it.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT0TTEcIj6A
His hand shakes.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZBzPRqs3Ah
Why?
He dreams.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnLBslg1NEj
A lantern-lit sky.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9C3BDShqg4
A girl’s laughter.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYFMSPjKiJE
His name in her mouth like it belonged there.
Marigold.
He wakes.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDI9srME6qt
He forgets again.
The house in the hills has no door, but he knows it’s his.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjWgLjweg4u
There’s music on the record player that skips every seventh bar.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiAjqgATRwU
The attic is locked.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaSGVDcYUau
The key is under a painting, signed “M.”
He doesn’t remember her.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk5tawTK9Ue
But he misses her anyway.
He runs his hand over the name in the wood:95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBKz3crIuKw
Aime + M.
His knees go weak.
And then—95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡofSNrv3trU
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.95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBEVdE4yH23
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 know95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1rgKLhiuT4
she was never truly forgotten.
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