They were still at the table.
The coffee had long since cooled, but neither of them moved. The silence between them had grown comfortable.
Malvor drummed his fingers against the ceramic mug, then stopped. Started again. Stopped.
She raised a brow. "You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're thinking too loud and trying to act casual about it."
He cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at her. "I was just... wondering."
She waited.
"Have you ever thought about… seeing Brigitte?" he asked, like the words might explode in his mouth. "For, you know. Therapy. Healing. Emotional excavating. Spiritual spelunking. Possibly... couples counseling?"
She blinked. "Couples counseling?"
"Well, technically that's Vitaria's area," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "But I feel like Brigitte would bring glitter and snacks, and honestly that might be more effective?"
Asha stared at him, somewhere between amused and disbelieving.
He finally met her gaze, and whatever sarcasm had been lingering in his tone dissolved.
"I just…" He exhaled. "I want you to really heal. Not just get by. Not just smile through the pain and say you're fine when you're bleeding on the inside."
She looked away.
"I've already had Brigitte's priests in my head," she said flatly. "For years. They were the ones who helped me 'deal' with trauma. Every time I broke, they made me feel better. Softer. Safer. Like I was fine."
Malvor nodded slowly.
"I know," he said gently. "But what they did wasn't healing."
She tensed, but he didn't stop.
"They manipulated your emotions. Put up barriers and called it peace. That was not healing, my love, that was corking a dam and pretending the flood wouldn't come."
He leaned in, voice quiet and steady.
"I want to take the dam down. Slowly. Carefully. With you."
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
"I want to feel what's real," he continued. "Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. And I want you to feel it too, not alone. Not shattered. Just... one piece at a time. With someone beside you."
His fingers brushed against hers on the table.
"I'll sit outside if I have to. But if there's even a chance Brigitte can help, you deserve that chance."
She didn't pull away.
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't say no, either.
And when her thumb brushed against his, just once, he knew.
That was a beginning.
Outside, just beyond their silence, the world waited.
And somewhere far away, Le Palais de Larmes stirred, its walls weeping in silence, its halls echoing with forgotten sobs and long-held truths.
A palace built not to hide pain…
…but to let it finally be seen.
Malvor didn't expect Brigitte to respond so fast.
Usually, her realm required multiple requests, at least one poetic letter, and the occasional bottle of enchanted rosé just to get penciled into her preliminary mood calendar.
But this time?
Her reply came within the hour, sealed in glitter dusted wax, scented like rose petals and tears.
"Come this afternoon. I will be old enough to help you."
The air shimmered as they stepped through the portal.
A soft breeze carried the scent of lavender, powdered sugar, and heartbreak.
They emerged into the courtyard of Le Palais de Larmes, golden cobblestones glowing faintly underfoot, fountains bubbling with what looked suspiciously like sparkling wine, and delicate rose bushes lining the path… their petals occasionally sighing.
Malvor adjusted the tray in his hands, stacked with sweets from his realm: sugared violets that whispered secrets when chewed, caramel lace that shimmered with color, and his personal contribution: a candy apple that looked completely normal but screamed when bitten into. He felt it added character.
The palace doors opened before they knocked.
Inside, the light was dim, filtered through stained glass windows that shifted colors with every step. The music playing in the background sounded like Edith Piaf fell into a music box and refused to come out until someone felt something.
Brigitte was already waiting.
She reclined on her pink velvet chaise lounge, a deep merlot gown clinging to her like an emotion she hadn't shaken off yet. Her hair was pinned back in elegant waves streaked with gray, and her face was soft, not from lack of power, but from knowing how much it cost to hold it.
Asha blinked.
This Brigitte wasn't a glitter eyed girl or a sobbing teen queen.
She was a woman who had seen decades of longing, heartbreak, and healing. Who survived it all with grace and eyeliner intact.
"Well," Brigitte said, her voice like silk over cracked porcelain. "You brought candy. That is already better than most."
Malvor gave her a half-bow, setting the tray down on the nearest chaise-side table. "Figured I'd soften you up before the trauma talk."
Brigitte arched a perfectly shaped brow. "You're lucky I'm currently feeling emotionally stable. Otherwise, I'd make the furniture cry."
She turned her gaze to Asha and stood, slowly, deliberately.
And then, she did something no one expected.
She opened her arms.
No drama. No performance.
Just an invitation.
"I'm not here to fix you," she said gently. "But if you want to start unpacking, I'll make sure the room doesn't flood while you do."
Asha didn't move for a second.
Then, quietly… she stepped forward.
Not because she was ready.
But because she finally had someone who would stand beside her while she fell apart.
Brigitte didn't say a word as she led them down a gilded hallway lit with flickering candlelight. The floor shimmered like a reflection, like they were walking across memory itself.
At the end of the corridor, she stopped in front of two tall, arched doors and brushed the handle with her fingers.
"This is the Galerie des Cœurs Brisés," she said softly, looking at Asha. "Everything you've survived lives here. Every wound. Every silence. Every version of you the world refused to see."
Malvor reached for Asha's hand.
Brigitte held up a finger.
"She walks alone."
Asha hesitated. The doors creaked open on their own.
The room stretched endlessly in all directions, the ceiling high and arched like a cathedral of grief. Paintings floated in midair, suspended by nothing but memory. Sculptures shifted in and out of focus. Some pulsed with emotion. Others stayed still like even they had learned to hold their breath.
Asha took a breath.
And walked.
The gallery began in silence.
Not the kind that soothed, but the kind that pressed in.
That judged.
Her footsteps echoed softly across the marble. Her body felt too heavy for sound. The lighting flickered with a soft pink glow, but this first corridor felt darker than the rest.
At first, she thought the walls were blank.
But they weren't.
They were empty.
Every frame hung in perfect symmetry, titled and labeled, prepared, yet the canvases?
Gray.
A muted fog of memory. Untouched. Unpainted. Forgotten.
She moved slowly, reading the plaques beneath each one. Some had dates. Some didn't.
Age 3 – Birthday?
Winter – No Fire.
Someone's Voice, Maybe.
Age 6 – Hiding Under the Table.
Each title hinted at something, but the canvas stayed unchanged. Like her mind had refused to keep anything too soft, too safe.
She reached out to one labeled:
"Mother's Face."
Nothing happened.
No swirl of magic. No sudden remembering.
Just cold air brushing against her fingers, hovering over a truth she'd never had.
Asha moved on.
Further down, a small cluster of paintings emerged, fragments. Slivers of something broken.
A chipped teacup in too-small hands. Cracks filled with gold that wasn't real, just painted on to look like care.
A window at night, the moon crooked in the sky, a blanket corner clutched too tightly.
A hallway she didn't recognize, dark and narrow. She could hear her footsteps inside the frame. No one waited at the end.
And then she saw it:
"Happy Lies"
At first glance, it was beautiful.
Color bled across the canvas like a kaleidoscope, bright, cheerful, saturated. Children laughed in the corners. Parents, maybe, stood in the center, arms outstretched.
But the closer she stepped?
The blur emerged.
No one had eyes. The smiles were too wide. The laughter had no sound. And beneath all that color, just barely visible, was a small, hollow eyed girl curled in the corner, completely alone.
The word family was etched into the frame in elegant gold.
When she touched it, the gold peeled back.
And underneath, burned into the wood:
You told yourself this story to survive.
The sculpture stood alone.
A white pedestal beneath a flickering spotlight.
Asha didn't want to look too closely.
But she did.
The girl was tiny, no more than eight. Her marble skin red-veined and trembling beneath carved ceremonial robes. Her shoulders hunched, her eyes downcast. Rusted chains looped around her neck and wrists. A price tag dangled from her collarbone, swaying slightly in a breeze that didn't exist.
The number on the tag shifted.
40 silver.Then 25.Then a single copper coin.
Asha reached out not to comfort. Just to understand.
Her fingers brushed the pedestal.
The statue bled.
Thin red lines seeped from the stone, running down the girl's legs and pooling at her feet. The scent of iron filled the air like a memory she'd spent years trying to forget.
Asha pulled back, heart stuttering.
The girl didn't scream.
That girl never had.