Morning light filtered weakly through the broken windows of the mansion.
Vicky sat alone, knees drawn close, eyes unfocused.
The dream had faded—but the words had not.
A promise.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember when it was made, or to whom. Yet the weight of it sat heavy in his chest, undeniable and real.
He closed his eyes.
The headache returned, faint but persistent, as if reacting to the thought itself.
"I haven't forgotten," he whispered.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
And then—
as if something deep within him had been touched—
Vicky began to speak again.
This time, not as himself.
But as memory.
"I did not forget you,"
though silence stood between us.
Time buried my voice,
but not my vow.
I walk a path covered in shadows,
not because I chose to leave—
but because the hour has not yet arrived.
Wait for me,
as I wait for myself.
When the world is ready to break,
I will remember everything."
The final words lingered in the air.
Then vanished.
Vicky opened his eyes slowly, breath unsteady.
He didn't know why he had spoken that poem.
He didn't know who it was meant for.
But somewhere deep inside, something stirred—quietly satisfied.
Luka stood at the doorway, watching in silence. He said nothing.
Some things were not meant to be questioned.
Outside, the city remained still.
Waiting.