I know what I need to do.
The certainty crystallizes with the particular clarity of understanding that arrives fully formed rather than gradually assembled. The answer has been present since Koishii and I shared that meal in his library—since a conversation about happy endings planted seeds that are only now bearing fruit.
I close my eyes.
The darkness behind my eyelids provides focus that visual input would only distract from. I need to concentrate. Need to remember. Need to access knowledge that I absorbed withoutfully processing, information that sat dormant until this exact moment made it relevant.
I can only do this once.
One chance.
One opportunity to make this work.
The memory surfaces with the particular vividness of moments that your subconscious has been preserving for future need.
---
The library is warm despite the crystalline fire that provides its illumination.
Koishii sits across from me, his shifted features carrying the particular attention of someone who finds their dinner companion more interesting than the food between them. The meal is exquisite—flavors that transcend ordinary cuisine, sustenance that feeds more than just physical hunger.
"Do you think everyone deserves a happy ever after?"
His question arrives without preamble—the particular directness of someone who doesn't believe in conversational warm-ups or diplomatic easing into difficult topics.
I consider my response.
"Yes," I answer finally, the word carrying conviction that I don't question. "Depending on the circumstances."
But the caveat surfaces before I can stop it—pragmatism tempering idealism with the particular weight of someone who has witnessed too much cruelty to believe in universal redemption.
"But at the end of the day, not everyone gets that type of ending, do they?"
He nods in agreement.
The gesture carries the weight of centuries of observation, of watching stories unfold across timespans that I can barely conceptualize. His shifted features hold something that mightbe sorrow, might be acceptance, might be the particular resignation of beings who have seen too many endings to expect happy ones.
We eat in silence for a moment.
Then I notice it.
A book on his shelf—spine familiar, title triggering recognition that I can't immediately place. The volume carries the particular wear of something that has been read multiple times, pages softened by repeated handling.
"Have you read it?" I ask, gesturing toward the book.
He follows my gaze.
"I have," he confirms, voice carrying something that might be fondness for the text or might be appreciation for my noticing it. "The irony of the legend is that betrayal usually happens in those you trust the most."
The observation lands with weight that extends beyond simple literary analysis.
"The opposite goes for those who despise you," he continues, shifted features arranging themselves into expression that carries layers I'm only beginning to understand. "But they've been supporting your rise and reign all along. Interesting analogies when you bring it to the realms of life."
---
The flashback ends.
The memory releases me back into the present with the particular disorientation of consciousness that has been traveling through time. But the lesson remains—the particular wisdom that Koishii offered without explaining why it mattered.
