The morning after the signing was unnaturally quiet.
No cars on the street. No chatter from the cafés below his apartment. Even the ever-present hum of the city seemed to have been smothered.
Dylan sat at the small kitchen table, staring into a mug of coffee he hadn't touched. Violet had sent him a single text at sunrise:
Don't go outside until I come.
No explanation. No smiley face. Just that.
At first, he thought it was some overprotective quirk—until the air pressure shifted. The kind of shift you feel in your bones, as if the atmosphere had been pulled taut like a bowstring.
Then came the light.
It poured in through the blinds, not golden like dawn, but harsh and alien—silver-white, fractured by faint streaks of crimson.
He stood, moved to the window… and froze.
The skyline was still there. The buildings still stood. But above them, the sky had… changed.
It was split into vast, jagged panes—like someone had smashed reality and left the cracks hanging in the air. Through those cracks, something else moved. Shapes too big to belong to this world. A wing here, the curve of a horn there. The brief flicker of an eye that was far too aware.
Dylan's heart pounded. He didn't know why, but deep inside, something whispered—It's starting.
And right then, someone knocked at the door. Three sharp, deliberate knocks.
The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and the soft sweetness of chrysanthemums someone had left by the window. Sunlight filtered through the pale curtains, broken by the thin shadows of IV lines and the slow rise and fall of his grandmother's frail chest.
She looked up as Dylan stepped inside, her tired eyes brightening instantly.
"Dylan," she said, her voice still warm despite the rasp. "You came."
He smiled—small, careful—and stepped closer. "Of course, Grandma."
Her gaze flicked past him then, catching sight of the figure following behind. Violet entered without hesitation, her steps light, posture elegant. She carried herself like she belonged here, like she'd already been a part of this family for years.
Dylan cleared his throat, suddenly feeling the weight of what he was about to say. He moved to the bedside, standing so his grandmother could see both of them.
"Grandma… this is Violet," he said, his tone steady despite the storm in his chest. "She's… my girlfriend. Has been for a while now. And—" he hesitated for half a heartbeat, then committed, "—we just registered our marriage yesterday."
For a moment, silence filled the room. The slow beep of the monitor seemed louder than usual.
His grandmother's lips parted, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes welled up. "Marriage…?" The word trembled out of her, fragile as glass. "You… you got married?"
Dylan nodded. "Yeah. I wanted you to know right away."
Her eyes darted between him and Violet, searching for something—signs, proof, truth. Then, as if the realization struck all at once, she let out a shaky laugh.
"Oh, Dylan…" She reached out, and he quickly took her hand. "I was so worried you'd never find someone. That you'd be alone." She glanced at Violet, her smile warm despite the tears brimming in her eyes. "And you… you're even more beautiful than I imagined."
Violet returned the smile without a hint of awkwardness. "Thank you," she said softly, her fingers finding Dylan's hand, threading through it like it was second nature. "I promise I'll take good care of him."
The old woman squeezed both their hands, her grip weak but full of meaning. "That's all I wanted to see before I go… That you wouldn't be alone in this world."
Dylan swallowed hard, forcing a smile even as something twisted deep inside him. "You're not going anywhere, Grandma."
She chuckled faintly, shaking her head. "We both know I can't promise that." But her gaze never wavered from the two of them, as if memorizing this image—the grandson she raised, standing beside a woman who seemed to belong in his life.
Violet didn't look away. She stayed close, her warmth pressed to Dylan's side, her hand steady over his.
And in that quiet, fragile moment, the storm outside the hospital's walls felt very far away.
Dylan lingered for a few more minutes, answering his grandmother's questions about how they met, keeping his tone light. Eventually, he excused himself to grab water from the vending machine down the hall.
The moment the door clicked shut, the room grew quieter—just the steady beep of the monitor and the distant hum of hospital life.
His grandmother turned her gaze back to Violet. The warmth was still there, but now it held a certain focus—an unspoken need to understand the girl in front of her.
"You love him?" she asked softly, though it sounded more like a measure than a question.
Violet's lips curved in a faint smile. "I do."Her voice was calm, but her hand, still holding Dylan's empty chair armrest, tightened just enough for the leather to creak.
The old woman studied her face for a moment, seemingly satisfied by the answer. Then she sighed, her frail shoulders sinking deeper into the pillows.
"Dylan's been through a lot," she said. "More than he'll ever admit. He hides it because he doesn't want to burden anyone. But… he needs someone who won't leave when it gets hard."
Her fingers, cool and bony, rested gently over Violet's hand. "I'm not going to be here forever. And when I'm gone… he'll need an anchor. Someone to keep him steady."
Violet's eyes softened—or at least, they seemed to. Deep inside them, there was a glint that didn't quite match the tenderness in her voice."I'll take care of him," she said slowly, as though sealing a vow. "No matter what."
The old woman smiled faintly, relief flickering across her tired features. "Good. That's all I needed to hear."
Violet's thumb brushed over the older woman's knuckles, her touch gentle, her gaze fixed—not on the grandmother, but on the door Dylan had left through.
The old woman's gaze wandered to the pale blue curtain swaying slightly in the air-conditioned draft. "You know," she began, voice faint but steady, "I never thought I'd have a grandson. The doctors told me decades ago that I couldn't have children. Not mine, not even adopted. I… had made peace with being alone."
Violet tilted her head, listening closely. Her smile was faint, but her eyes never blinked for too long.
"Then, one rainy evening, I opened my door and found him," the grandmother continued. "A little boy—five years old, shivering, soaked to the bone, lying on the ground like the world had already given up on him. No parents. No memory of who he was or where he came from."
Violet's fingers stilled on the chair armrest.
"I took him in," the grandmother said softly. "It wasn't easy, but… he became my whole reason for staying alive." She paused, a bittersweet smile curving her lips. "Maybe it was fate. Or maybe God decided I deserved one miracle."
Violet gave a small nod, her expression warm enough to be convincing. But behind her calm eyes, thoughts moved like dark tides.No memory… found at five years old…
Now she understood.
Her own "rebirth" and that of Noir, Blanche, and Scarlet had been a clean shift—slipping from one life into another body in the same flow of time. They carried all their memories, all their obsessions, forward.
But Dylan… his curse hadn't let him simply step across the boundary. Fourteen years ago, it had thrown him back, reshaped him into a child, stripped him bare of the past they all shared.
He didn't forget me, she realized. He was made to forget.
Her fingers curled just slightly in her lap. If anything, the knowledge didn't cool her feelings—it sharpened them.
The grandmother sighed and let her head rest deeper into the pillows. "I just hope someone will be there for him when I'm gone."
Violet's smile returned, soft and unwavering. "You have my word," she said, her voice warm but carrying a weight that the older woman mistook for sincerity.
The door creaked open, and Dylan stepped back in with a hesitant smile. "Everything okay?"
Both women turned to look at him—one with the weariness of love, the other with something far deeper, hidden just beneath the surface.
The door clicked shut behind Dylan as he stepped back into the room, a small paper bag of snacks and juice in his hand.
"Brought you something light, Grandma," he said, forcing a smile.
Her eyes drifted to him, clouded but warm. "Always thoughtful…" She motioned faintly for him to come closer.
He set the bag aside and took her frail hand in his. Her skin felt thinner than the bedsheet.
Violet rose from the chair without a word and took the other hand, her expression gentle.
The grandmother's gaze moved between them. "You… you look right together," she whispered, each breath slower than the last. "Violet… I'm leaving him in your care. Promise me…"
"I promise," Violet said softly, her thumb brushing over the back of the old woman's hand.
The old woman's lips curved faintly. She exhaled, slow and trembling, as though letting go of something heavy. Her eyes lingered on Dylan one last time, as if memorizing him.
Then her fingers twitched once in his palm… and stilled.
"Grandma?" Dylan's voice cracked. He squeezed her hand, willing warmth back into it. "Grandma—!"
The heart monitor let out a long, steady tone.
Violet's grip on his shoulder tightened, steadying him as he bowed his head over the cooling hand. She didn't speak—only stayed there, her presence quiet but unshakable, watching him break in silence.
The room felt smaller. The walls pressed in, the air heavy with the sterile smell of disinfectant and the finality of the heart monitor's tone.
Dylan didn't move. His head was still bowed over her hand, his shoulders locked in place. The paper bag on the bedside table looked ridiculous now—like a gift for someone who'd already left.
Violet's eyes lingered on him for a long moment, then she straightened. Without a word, she reached over and pressed the call button for the nurse. Her voice, when she spoke to the staff who arrived, was calm and even, as if she'd done this before.
"She passed peacefully," she said, her tone almost gentle. "Please give us a moment."
The nurses exchanged glances, nodded, and began their quiet work.
Violet moved to the cabinet, found Dylan's bag, and began gathering his belongings with precise, unhurried motions. She kept her gaze soft when it drifted back to him, but there was a quiet firmness in the way she organized everything—like she was already stepping into the space his grandmother had just vacated.
When the bed was finally stripped and the room cleared, she returned to Dylan's side.
"Come on," she murmured, sliding his bag over her shoulder before taking his arm. Her grip was gentle, but there was no room for refusal.
He didn't argue. Couldn't.
She led him out into the dim corridor, past the nurses and the paperwork and the lingering scent of antiseptic. At the end of the hallway, where the afternoon light spilled through tall windows, she stopped long enough to look at him.
"You don't have to think about anything right now," she said quietly. "I'll handle it."
And the way she said it, it wasn't just about today—it was about everything.