The air smelled of rose ash and rain.
Elowen woke before dawn, her cheek still warm from where Amara's hand had rested. The glade was quiet now. The petals had fallen still. The monument no longer glowed. And Amara was sleeping just beside her, curled up like a question no one dared answer.
Elowen didn't move for a long time.
She watched the way the morning light gently peeled back the shadows, the way it softened the lines in Amara's face. She looked peaceful here. But not unburdened.
No, Amara still held weight in her bones. The kind of weight that doesn't go away with time, only shifts from shoulder to shoulder. And Elowen—quiet, determined Elowen—was ready to carry some of it.
She reached out, brushed a fallen petal from Amara's sleeve.
Amara stirred. Then blinked slowly, like she wasn't sure whether the world she had woken to was real.
"I didn't dream you, did I?" she whispered.
"No," Elowen said. "But I'd come find you if you did."
Amara sat up, rubbing her hands together as if to wake them. "I don't know what I am when I'm with you."
"You're someone I want to know," Elowen replied, honest and open.
Silence stretched between them. Not tense. Not hesitant. Just full. Full of everything they hadn't said yet, and everything they might say soon.
Amara finally looked at the monument. "I used to think forgetting was kindness. That if something hurt too much to carry, it was better to let it go."
"And now?"
Amara's eyes were steady. "Now I think pain is part of the story. The part that teaches us what we love most."
Elowen rose and stepped toward the stone. The two roses carved into it still touched, still twined. One alive, one fallen. And yet, they were together. Not separated. Not erased.
"Do you want to remember her?" Elowen asked quietly.
"I already do," Amara said. "I always have. I just... tried to rewrite the memory. Pretend it was less than it was."
Elowen turned to her. "Tell me about her."
So Amara did.
She spoke in pieces, like gently unspooling a ribbon. Her sister had been bold, brave, and too curious for her own good. They had run barefoot through moonlit paths, dared the woods to keep their secrets, made crowns out of moss and sunlight. They had promised each other forever in the language of petals and wishes.
But magic has its rules.
And Amara broke them.
The pain that followed wasn't sharp—it was slow, creeping, like a song that lost its words over time. Her sister forgot. Lived. Grew. And Amara watched, hidden in the background of her life like a faded photograph.
"She smiled again," Amara whispered. "Without remembering why she ever stopped. That was the worst part."
Elowen sat beside her. "But now you're remembering."
Amara looked at her then, something fragile in her gaze. "Because you remind me what it means to feel deeply and still stay."
They didn't need more words after that.
Together, they rose. The monument didn't weep. The forest didn't hush. But the ground felt softer beneath their feet. And when Amara reached for Elowen's hand this time, it wasn't trembling.
Their fingers wove together like ivy on stone—soft, sure, and slow.
"I don't want to forget anything anymore," Amara said as they stepped back onto the path. "Not even the pain."
"Then let's remember," Elowen said, squeezing her hand. "All of it."
Above them, a soft breeze stirred the trees.
And in its breath, the memory of a girl and her sister—laughing in golden light—lingered just a little longer.