Ring and Ashes
"Jaan," he whispered again, the word like silk wrapped around a blade.
She didn’t need to turn around to know he was close. She could feel it—the way the night itself seemed to fold around him, how the shadows leaned in when he arrived. It had been three years since she last saw him. Three years since she buried the box he left on her doorstep, full of petals, teeth, and ashes.
And still, her body remembered him. The way her heart raced was not out of fear.
Not entirely.
"You’re not real," she said, voice tight, trying to anchor herself to the cold metal of the railing beneath her fingers. "You died in that fire. I saw the house collapse."
A pause. Then a soft chuckle—low, knowing.
"You saw what I let you see." His voice was right behind her now, breath grazing the curve of her neck. "You always did fall for the performance."
She turned. Slowly.
His face was as beautiful as she remembered, but wrong now—sharper, darker, as if absence had etched something inhuman into his features. His eyes, that haunting amber, burned not with affection, but with design. Everything about him said: this was the plan all along.
"You left me," she said, a tremor in her throat.
"No," he said, gently touching her cheek with fingers colder than the wind. "I erased myself. For you. To see if you could live without me." His eyes searched hers, endless. "You couldn’t."
She couldn’t speak. Her silence was a confession.
He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her skin.
"You still sleep with the ring under your pillow," he murmured. A cruel smile curved his lips. "You still dream of me. You still wonder... if you imagined the scent of burning wood the night before the fire."
Her breath caught.
"You set it all up."
His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"I set us free." He gestured around them—to the quiet, the storm-wrung sky, the city that seemed to pause. "Death is such a small price for certainty."
Thunder cracked above them, the wind turning wild. And maybe that was the moment she could have run—should have.
But instead, she whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
"Azar."
His smile softened. "Jaan."
He took her hand. And she let him.
Because some loves don’t fade.
They orchestrate their own resurrection.
By BloodRose
"Jaan," he whispered again, the word like silk wrapped around a blade.
She didn’t need to turn around to know he was close. She could feel it—the way the night itself seemed to fold around him, how the shadows leaned in when he arrived. It had been three years since she last saw him. Three years since she buried the box he left on her doorstep, full of petals, teeth, and ashes.
And still, her body remembered him. The way her heart raced was not out of fear.
Not entirely.
"You’re not real," she said, voice tight, trying to anchor herself to the cold metal of the railing beneath her fingers. "You died in that fire. I saw the house collapse."
A pause. Then a soft chuckle—low, knowing.
"You saw what I let you see." His voice was right behind her now, breath grazing the curve of her neck. "You always did fall for the performance."
She turned. Slowly.
His face was as beautiful as she remembered, but wrong now—sharper, darker, as if absence had etched something inhuman into his features. His eyes, that haunting amber, burned not with affection, but with design. Everything about him said: this was the plan all along.
"You left me," she said, a tremor in her throat.
"No," he said, gently touching her cheek with fingers colder than the wind. "I erased myself. For you. To see if you could live without me." His eyes searched hers, endless. "You couldn’t."
She couldn’t speak. Her silence was a confession.
He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her skin.
"You still sleep with the ring under your pillow," he murmured. A cruel smile curved his lips. "You still dream of me. You still wonder... if you imagined the scent of burning wood the night before the fire."
Her breath caught.
"You set it all up."
His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"I set us free." He gestured around them—to the quiet, the storm-wrung sky, the city that seemed to pause. "Death is such a small price for certainty."
Thunder cracked above them, the wind turning wild. And maybe that was the moment she could have run—should have.
But instead, she whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
"Azar."
His smile softened. "Jaan."
He took her hand. And she let him.
Because some loves don’t fade.
They orchestrate their own resurrection.
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