She writes at twilight.
No magic in the ink. No spell in the parchment. Just quiet fingers tracing syllables she'll never read aloud.
She doesn't address it to Caelum Dross.
She writes it to the man beneath the myth.
"You left before we could fracture together. And maybe that was mercy."
"I learned to speak because your silence taught me the weight of unspoken things."
"My mother died believing your doctrine could save us. I forgave her for trusting you. I'm still trying to forgive you for letting her."
"Your journals wept. Your drafts ached. Your fire hid your grief. But I found it."
"I didn't burn what you left behind. I let others soften it."
"You were wrong. But you weren't cruel. That matters more than it used to."
"I've become something gentler than rebellion. I don't want your legacy. I want my own echo."
"If you're still listening—not from myth, but from wherever you are—know this: I understand. And understanding isn't absolution."
"It's simply light, where fire once ruled."
She folds it.
Places it beneath a lantern that once marked the Quiet Creed.
The wind carries nothing away.
And that's enough.