The night air bit softly at their skin. A cold wind brushed past, carrying the faint fragrance of roses and damp soil. The garden, so beautiful under its lantern glow, now felt cloaked in a strange, sorrowful quiet.
Avin sat stiffly on the bench, his apology still hanging between them, fragile as glass. The silence stretched. Neither moved, neither spoke. It was as though the air itself was holding its breath, waiting.
Then, softly, Miranda’s voice broke the stillness.
"Do you rember... when we were kids? One day we were playing in the maid’s hall. You tripped , and I fell."
Her words trembled faintly, but a thin smile ghosted her lips. "Mother tried to convince you to apologize. But you never did. You even said you never would."
Avin’s chest tightened. His mind scrambled. But there was nothing there. He didn’t rember—because it hadn’t been him. He hadn’t lived that life. He couldn’t dig up the mory she so vividly clung to. The weight of the truth pressed on him like iron: if he told her now, if he said he didn’t rember, it would shatter her.
She had just witnessed her mother’s brutal end. Could he dare cut her deeper?
His jaw clenched. His voice ca out low, hesitant.
"...Yeah. Yes, I rember."
His eyes darted toward her, anxious.
And there it was—on her face, a fragile smile blood. It was small, but it lit her expression, chasing away for a mont the grief that had chained her down.
And for Avin, that single smile brought a flicker of strange fulfilnt. For the first ti, he realized, he was not thinking only of himself.
Another silence fell. But this one was different—lighter, almost tender.
Then Miranda gave a soft chuckle. Her shoulders shook faintly as she inhaled.
"Then... you must rember our bet that day."
Avin’s heart skipped.
"Bet? What bet?" His thoughts scrambled, frantic. "How the hell am I supposed to know...?"
But he couldn’t falter now. He forced the words past his lips. "Yes."
She chuckled again, low and almost mischievous.
"I know you’re a busy noble. You probably don’t keep such random monts in your head. It’s okay. You don’t have to lie. I know you don’t rember..."
Her voice carried no malice, no accusation. Just a sad, accepting truth.
Avin closed his eyes, his head bowing slightly. Guilt pressed down heavier than the night air. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t his fault—he had never been here, never lived those monts. But this body, this na, carried emotions that weren’t his. The tears, the rage, the guilt—those belonged to Avin, not Clive. And now, he couldn’t separate them.
Yet even with that clarity, he still couldn’t bring himself to act on it. He couldn’t give her the sharp truth that would cut her open.
So he said the only thing that felt natural.
"Sorry."
Miranda’s head snapped toward him. Her eyes shimred, tears clinging to the edges, catching the light like dew. For a second, her sadness froze, replaced by raw surprise.
He looked at her. She looked back. The air between them seed to hum, alive with sothing unspoken.
Then her lips curved upward. Slowly. Tenderly. She let out a soft laugh, almost incredulous.
"You said it again," she whispered. "Two tis... That’s impressive."
Her words stung Avin in a strange way. It was praise, yes, but laced with the ache of years without those words.
Miranda tilted her head, her smile bittersweet. "On that day, we made a deal. That if you ever did say sorry to , you’d have to do whatever I said."
Avin blinked. His inner voice scoffed. That’s quite childish.
But Miranda didn’t waver. She lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening in her lap. "You really didn’t say it for years. Even after I fell countless tis, you said nothing."
Her breath hitched. She exhaled, then inhaled again. Her next words were brittle, forcing themselves past the knot in her throat.
"So I guess... the only thing it took for you to finally do what I want was shooting my own rabid mother, huh?"
She forced out a laugh, the sound jagged, broken.
Avin winced, unsure whether to flinch or comfort. His voice ca out softer than he expected. "That’s... a unique way of thinking about it."
Her lips curved faintly, almost grateful he didn’t correct her, didn’t tell her to stop.
Then she raised her eyes to his. They were pleading, glistening, fragile but insistent. "Since I won... it’s ti to fulfill your promise, right?"
Her gaze pierced him. And without even thinking, Avin heard himself respond:
"Yes."
Her smile widened instantly, blooming bright through the cracks of her sorrow. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and for a mont it was as though she had beco soone else entirely—lighter, freer, almost childlike.
It was sudden, jarring even, the way grief gave way to joy. Avin watched her with confusion, unsettled.
Then she leaned closer, her voice soft, almost shy.
"So... you’ll go on a date with ?"
The words dropped like stones into Avin’s chest.
"What?" he blurted, his voice sharp, incredulous. His mind spun, his thoughts tripping over themselves. She just saw her mother torn apart, and she wants to go on a date? Is this so kind of coping chanism?
He didn’t know what to do. His chest tightened with indecision.
On one hand, he had no romantic interest in her. He didn’t want to lie, didn’t want to lead her on. On the other hand, could he really reject her now? Could he be the one to take the fragile smile she had just managed to build and crush it back into dust?
His lips parted. The only answer that made sense tumbled out.
"Yes. I will."
Miranda jolted upright, spinning in a sudden whirl of motion. Her hair caught the lantern light as she twirled, smiling so brightly it was almost blinding. The heavy bags under her eyes seed to fade, smoothed away by a happiness that felt too sharp, too sudden.
Avin stared, his thoughts clouded. Even as a coping chanism... is death so common here that people brush it off so easily? What kind of world have I been dropped into?
Miranda’s laughter rang out, clear and unburdened, filling the garden. She looked back at him, then ran forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
Her voice trembled with a joy that seed too pure for the night they had endured. "I heard there’s a new bakery in town. Wanna go check it out?"
Avin hesitated. His throat dried. His mind scread questions, doubts, warnings. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice any of them.
"...Sure," he said finally. His tone was unsteady, uncertain, but he forced the words through. "Sure, why not."
Miranda’s embrace tightened for a mont before she pulled back, spinning again in giddy delight.
And Avin sat there, still, unmoving, watching her dance with fragile happiness.
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