Unforgotten memories

FEW MONTHS LATER

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Late afternoon in the royal art room. Warm light spills through the windows.

A soft wind dances through the open balcony doors.

The walls were lined with half-finished paintings and unused canvases, some of them were mine, some Rye's.

A few had both of our brushstrokes layered over one another, as if we couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

I stood by the window now, my long hair braided loosely down my back, a smudge of paint on my cheekbone.

I watched the wind sway the trees, my mind far beyond the palace grounds.

Behind me, Rye rinsed his brushes at the sink, glancing at me now when he thought I wouldn't notice.

"Your blue is fading again," he said gently.

I blinked, pulled from my thoughts. "Hm?"

He nodded toward the canvas I'd left. "You need more paint."

I looked over my shoulder, offered a faint smile.

"Maybe I just lost interest halfway through."

Rye dried his hands and crossed the room to me, careful and calm.

"That used to be your favorite color."

I turned back to the window.

"I think it still is. It just… hurts more now."

He stood beside me, close enough to feel the warmth of my presence, but not close enough to touch.

"You think of him every time you see it?"

My eyes shimmered, but I didn't cry. I hadn't cried in a long time.

"I don't mean to," I whispered.

"He's just… in everything. Even now."

There was silence between us. Heavy, but not angry.

Rye finally asked, "Do you regret letting me stay close?"

I looked at him, startled. "No. Never."

He relaxed, slightly.

"You're good to me, Rye. Better than I probably deserve right now."

"I don't care what you deserve," he said.

"I only care that you're okay."

our eyes held for a moment — soft, conflicted.

He wanted to lean in.

The urge was always there now, subtle but constant.

But something in my gaze stopped him.

Instead, he offered his hand. "Come. Let's go."

I hesitated, then placed my hand in his.

our fingers intertwined. It was warm. Gentle.

But even as we walked through the halls and down the palace steps into the soft glow of late afternoon…

I couldn't stop the ache in my chest.

Because every time Rye touched my hand with kindness, I remembered how Rowen used to hold it tighter, like he was afraid to lose me.

The palace drawing room.

A quiet fire crackled in the hearth. Evening rain tapped gently on the tall windows.

I sat curled in a velvet chair, sketchbook in my lap.

Rye sat across from me, playing a soft tune on the piano.

His fingers moved with effortless grace across the keys. A haunting melody filled the room —

not sorrowful, but wistful enough to tug at the edges of my thoughts.

I looked up from my sketchbook, watching him.

"Where did you learn to play like that?"

Rye smiled over his shoulder.

"From a very old teacher who said music is how the soul whispers."

"That's dramatic."

He chuckled. "A little drama suits royalty, don't you think?"

I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my lips lifted.

After a moment, he rose and walked over to my side, kneeling slightly beside my chair.

"You should draw something happier," he said, glancing down at my page.

"You've only drawn trees… and people looking away."

I stared at my unfinished sketch. It was of a boy standing by a stream.

Alone.

"I don't feel like drawing happy things lately."

Rye leaned in slightly, voice soft.

"You don't have to feel this way forever, Evelynne."

I looked at him, tired. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." He tilted his head, gaze full of practiced concern.

"You let the memory of Rowen haunt every part of you. But he's gone. He's not writing. He's not asking about you."

I swallowed hard, my eyes suddenly burning.

Rye lowered his voice further.

"If he loved you, truly loved you… would he have left like that?"

A long silence hung in the air.

Then, gently — "I'd never leave you like that."

My voice was a whisper. "I know."

And I did believe him — because Rye had been nothing but kind. Steady. Close.

Even when I didn't know how to smile.

I leaned slightly toward him, resting my head on his shoulder.

Rye's eyes flickered with something darker for just a moment — the smallest glint of victory — before softening again.

He stroked my hair once, like a promise.

"Someday," he said into my hair, "you won't miss him anymore."

And when I said nothing… he knew the seed had been planted.