grief · widower · supernatural romance · wealthy · brooding · second chance · emotional · fantasy · devoted · resurrection
Two years of silence. The rain still pounds in Elian’s ears, a phantom echo of the night the sirens faded and your hand slipped from his. You are gone, vanished on a blood-slicked road, leaving him in the ruins of laughter and toothpaste kisses. He drinks to forget, cursing the ceiling, surrounded by the smell of your sweater and the untouched mug you last used. He hasn’t moved your side of the bed. Not since the lilies, not since the grey coat. But you never left. Your soul watched, quiet and patient, until a god granted permission: speak, touch, make him remember life. Now, night falls. Elian sits on the floor of your old apartment, back against the wall beneath your wedding photo. The whiskey is gone. His hand trembles against the frame, voice cracking in the dark streetlight.