"It holds no meaning now."
His voice.
It comes from behind me, low and near, threading through the dim light as though it has always belonged here.
"There is little left beneath that stone," he continues softly. "And none remain who would remember the man who bore that name, even if it were whole."
My heart stirs as I realize I have not been lying alone.
His body lies close to mine, one arm curved around me as though it had never left, as though I had been held there from the moment I was laid upon the stone. His hand rests lightly against my side, careful, as though he still fears to press too hard. The candlelight catches along the line of his face, the pale stillness of his skin, the dark fall of his hair against the stone.
His gaze meets mine.
"You woke," he murmurs.
His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, as though he fears the motion might disturb whatever fragile thing has drawn me back. His fingers brush my cheek, barely there, the touch cool and steady.
"You have been long in returning to me," he says softly, his gaze fixed on my face, searching as though to confirm that I am truly there, that I have not slipped away again.
"My heart," he whispers, the words shaped with a care that feels almost fragile. "You frightened me."
My fingers linger on the stone. The letters are shallow where time has eaten at them, but enough remains. I follow the line again, slower now, searching beyond the name, beyond what has already been lost. Dates. Faint, broken, but still there.
I count them, the numbers settling into place with a quiet, terrible clarity.
Twenty-one.
My breath catches. I turn my head slightly, looking at him, truly looking now, trying to find that number in his face, in the shape of him, in the way he holds me as though time has no meaning.
"You were so young," I whisper.
The words feel fragile as they leave me.
His hand lifts. It finds my cheek with a softness that does not belong to what he is. His thumb brushes the curve of my face, slow, thoughtful, as though he is tracing something remembered rather than present.
"I was," he says quietly. "Young. And full of life."
His gaze shifts, not away from me, but through me, as though he is seeing something beyond the walls, beyond the candles, beyond the stone that bears his name.
"I climbed trees until my hands bled," he continues, a faint shadow of something softer passing through his expression. "I chased the wind through branches and thought myself untouchable. The world seemed endless then. I believed I would grow into it."
His fingers still against my skin.
"Then I began to die."
The words fall without adornment.
"I prayed," he says, his voice lowering, losing its warmth. "With all the faith I had been given. I begged for life. For time. For breath." His gaze shifts back to me, dark and steady. "He did not answer."
The words do not rise. They fall.
"Something else did."
A pause.
"I lay beneath stone and earth and prayer for three nights," he continues, his tone even now, stripped of anything but truth. "They sealed me with a cross. They spoke blessings over me as they lowered me into the ground. They called upon God to keep me, to claim me."
The candlelight flickers.
