The mornings felt different now.
Cecily wandered through the gardens in a daze, her shawl barely clinging to her shoulders. The sun filtered through thinning clouds, casting gentle beams across the withered hedgerows and tangled vines. Birds called from the trees, their songs sharp and bright against the silence in her chest.
She had not dreamed since the night she remembered.
"Ael," she whispered again, just to feel the name. Her voice trembled. "Ael."
She sat on the old marble bench beneath the ash tree, her hands folded in her lap. The seat was colder than before, as though his absence had leached warmth from the very stone.
Each night she fell asleep hoping—praying—he might come again. But he didn't. She closed her eyes, called out in her mind, clutched his name like a charm.
But her dreams were empty now.
The days became rituals.
She rose, walked the garden paths, traced the footprints of her memories. She sat at the fountain, where his voice had once echoed. She watched the roses, now beginning to dry and brown at the edges.
And at night, she painted.
The attic became her sanctuary. By the window, with a single candle flickering, Cecily began sketching the details she could still recall: the lines of his coat, the curve of his mouth, the softness in his eyes. Each stroke of the brush was an act of defiance—a refusal to let him fade.
Though she had never seen him outside her dreams, she painted with certainty. As if her heart remembered what her mind had nearly lost.
She titled the canvas with delicate lettering in gold:
Ael's Garden.
She didn't show it to anyone. She wrapped it in linen and placed it in the eastern wing, beside her journal.
Her diary had become less frantic now, but no less filled. She wrote him letters. She told him about the garden, the way the roses had begun to fade. She told him of the painting, and how she feared she might never dream again.
I see you in the places we walked. I speak aloud in case you hear me. Do you know I remembered? Do you feel it where you are?
The world feels too quiet now.
Years passed.
Cecily grew older. She never married. Her life was filled with art, books, long walks in the garden. But she never spoke of Ael to others. It remained her secret, a thread of silver woven quietly through her days.
She had loved him, she realized.
Loved him without ever truly knowing who—or what—he was.
And though she never dreamed of him again, she never stopped waiting—hoping that someday,
she'll dream of him again.