I still remember that night—so vividly it seems as though it were only yesterday.

The fever struck me down the very evening I returned from the windy hill where my father had been laid to rest. Rain fell from afternoon until night, relentless, unceasing. The wind seeped through every crevice of the house, cold and damp, as though it carried with it all the grief lingering in the air. I had sat there for so long before that plain stone bearing his name, until my clothes were soaked through, until my hands were numb, and until my eyes no longer knew how to weep.

When consciousness returned, I found myself within a familiar chamber, the faint glow of an oil lamp spilling across the dark wooden floor. I lay in my own bed, a blanket drawn over me, my breath laboured, my head reeling.

And he—Caelum—was there.

He sat at the edge of my bed, my hand enclosed within his, the other resting gently upon my brow, testing the fever. He wore no solemn black attire such as he donned whenever duty called him beyond the house, but a simple white shirt, its collar and sleeves darkened by the rain. His hair was still dishevelled from the wind, a few strands clinging to his temple, and the lamplight upon that black hair made him seem almost a shadow himself—silent, steadfast, yet unspeakably weary.

It was because of that shirt that I grew anxious. He never left the house so unadorned. I dared not ask him where he had been. Not from anger—but from fear. Fear that, if I did, I would be forced to face the truth: that he was indeed bound for a place where I could not follow.

But he did not leave. Not then. After my father's burial, he never allowed me to remain alone for long.

I heard his voice—low, steady, and soft, as though unravelling the grief knotted within me:

"Ophelia, you are fevered. Do not move. Lie still here—I am with you."

My lips trembled, my throat dry, and my words scarcely more than a breath:

"You... you have been here all this time?"

He nodded. And without words, I knew he had never left. Through those days he held my hand, silent, yet present. Not to pull me from sorrow, but to remain within it with me—until I found strength to step out on my own.

I cannot recall when sleep overtook me once more; I only remember the dream. A long dream, heavy with the scent of earth and dried flowers, within which lingered his hand, his eyes—and the warmth of a husband that hovered in the air like a fading echo.

I loved him.

I loved him—on that fateful night—when I collapsed against him, my eyes dry of tears, and he simply sat there, holding me as though, if he let go, I should break into pieces. When his hand touched my hair, when his lips murmured something faint—too faint for my ears, but clear to my heart—then I loved him. Beyond return.

I longed to tell him... that I could not bear to lose him. That I feared—feared with every fibre of my being—a world in which he no longer stood beside me. And when he left me—quietly, without promise, without farewell—I could no longer bear the weight. My body gave way, my heart grew cold, and my mind slipped into a darkness without end.

For without him—what remained to me?

I lost my father, the last of my kin. I lost my home, my inheritance, the name that once shielded me from the storm. Yet all these I might have endured—had he still been there. Had he still looked upon me with the gentleness of that summer day, had he still taken my hand through the season of mourning.

But he, too, abandoned me. Not from malice—perhaps from fate, from the crown, from duties I never understood. But that knowledge did not lessen the wound.

How am I to go on?

Where am I to turn, what am I to do, when each morning I rise only to find myself a shadow within the world of others? When there is no one left to remember my homecoming, no one to await my smile?

I do not know. Truly, I do not know.

Perhaps the greatest question of my life is this:

Shall I ever again be able to love another, as once I loved him?

For that love was not some fragile ornament to be carried lightly. It was all that I possessed. It was my voice when I was silent; it was life itself in each heartbeat when I believed I had died with grief. It was the place where I laid aside my pride, only to be weak once more in his arms.

And now that he is gone...

I still live, but I no longer know for what purpose.

I still open my eyes each morning, I still walk, I still touch the world as though I were present within it. But in truth, these are only the habits of one who was once beloved.

My heart is broken.

And the most dreadful thing of all—
it continues to beat.

It beats in solitude, in memory, in dreams where he no longer dwells. Each throb recalls him—so sharply I cannot breathe. I fear that one day I may forget him. Yet I fear more still that I never shall.

I fear that, in losing him... I have lost myself.

I fear that, after all, I shall never again be able to love. Not because others are not good enough, nor gentle enough, nor patient enough. But because the tenderest, deepest part of me—the part that once knew how to love—was buried with him, in an autumn that has long since died.