Julius made his way down the mountain trail, the last embers of twilight fading behind the peaks. The descent was slower than the climb, not because of the steepness, but because he didn’t want to leave. The mountain hummed with memories, with her presence. But the further he walked, the quieter it became.

By the time he reached the valley, darkness had fully settled, blanketing the land in deep blues and grays. His cottage stood alone in the clearing, the small wooden structure barely illuminated by the pale glow of the crescent moon. It was a humble place, one he and Catherine had built together—warm, sturdy, filled with echoes of laughter that had long since faded into dust.

Julius stepped inside, the door creaking softly as he shut it behind him. The air was still, heavy, untouched. His footsteps on the wooden floor felt too loud, breaking the silence in a way that felt almost intrusive. He set his pack down by the door, his fingers lingering over the worn leather strap as he turned his head slightly, listening.

Nothing.

No voice. No faint laughter. No warmth curling around his fingers.

He exhaled, slow and careful, as if the act of breathing might disturb something unseen. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach for her, to feel even the illusion of her touch. But the house remained empty.

He walked to the small table near the window, pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it with the weight of someone far older than his years. His gaze drifted toward the fireplace—cold, unlit. They used to sit here together, Catherine curled against him, humming the same tune the wind carried through the mountains. He could almost hear it now. Almost.

But that was all it ever was. Almost.

He hated this. Hated how the quiet gnawed at him. Hated how he sat in this house, waiting for something that wasn’t real. But more than that, he hated how much he wished it would return.

Julius had once feared his mind’s decline, had fought against the whispers and visions. But now… now he wished they would come more often. He wished his mind would shatter completely if it meant seeing her again, feeling her presence just a little longer. The loneliness was worse than the madness. The silence was worse than the lies his mind conjured.

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He sat there for what felt like hours, unmoving, staring at the empty space across from him where Catherine should have been. But the night stretched on, indifferent and unyielding. The wind outside had stopped its song. No footsteps echoed across the floor. No ghostly touch brushed against his hand.

For the first time in a long time, she did not come.

Julius swallowed hard, his throat tight, his hands curling into fists on the table. He had spent so long fearing the weight of his own mind, but tonight, for the first time, he realized something far worse than seeing things that weren’t there.

It was knowing, with absolute certainty, that he was alone.

His trembling fingers reached into the drawer beneath the table, pulling out a small, weathered notebook. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning the careful notes he had written over the years—each encounter with Catherine, each conversation, each fleeting moment of warmth. He had logged them all, as if writing them down would make them real.

But as he turned the pages, he noticed something that made his breath hitch. The entries had grown sparse. Where once he had written of her visits every few nights, now weeks had passed between them. He traced the ink with unsteady fingers, his vision blurring as realization settled like a stone in his gut.

She was fading. Or maybe… he was healing.

A ragged sob tore from his throat, and he pressed a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He should have wanted this, should have welcomed the clarity of a mind no longer haunted. But all he could think about was the day when there would be no more entries to write, no more glimpses of her smile, no more echoes of her voice in the wind.

One day, she would be gone for good.

And that, more than anything, was what truly broke him.

Julius tried his best to log the entry of what had happened on the mountain today, but his tears stained the page. He slid the book forward to avoid ruining the already tattered quality, but his hands shook, his breathing uneven. Droplets struck the wooden table, his vision blurred, his chest tight. The silence around him pressed in, suffocating, vast.

Then a knock at the door.

His heart lurched. He jolted from his chair, barely aware of the movement, his mind clinging desperately to the possibility, the hope. Another vision? Catherine? Please.

He threw the door open, breathless.

But the woman standing there was not Catherine.

Her hair was not dark but a soft shade of ginger, strands catching the moonlight. Her eyes were not the familiar blue he ached for, but a striking jade, flecked with warmth. Freckles dusted her pale skin, and she smiled, a bright, genuine thing that made him freeze in place. In her hands, she held a small basket, its contents hidden beneath a cloth.

"Hello," she said, her voice light, easy. "I’m Stella. May I come in? You look like you need some company, Julius."