Fitran prepares a paper. Not a magic paper. Not a pactum. Not an official scroll that will be sent via artifacts or spirit birds. Just a plain sheet of paper he found behind a stone—forgotten, unremarkable. In the dim light, the shadows around him move as if signaling something long lost, waiting to be remembered again.
But today, he wants to write not with glyphs, not with the Void, not with Concepts. Every word born from the pen seems to warm the darkness in his heart, igniting the dimming hope.
As he reflects on everything, he realizes that he wants to write… with loss.
"Rinoa."
That name still feels foreign on his tongue. Not because he has forgotten it, but because the world has stopped mentioning it. Like morning dew evaporating with the arrival of noon, only memories remain in a hollow form.
Every memory stored, like shards of the past, reminds him that in every archive, her name is absent. In every glyph, her identity is erased. Even in the Gödelian Codex, only the shadow of her body remains—no voice, no end. He feels like a spirit floating between worlds, trapped between presence and absence.
Yet, in the midst of that darkness, today, Fitran writes it down one more time. Not to bring her back, but to remember that she once existed. In every stroke, he tries to weave back the threads of memory that have been severed, even though it feels like struggling against a fierce wind.
As he nears the end of the letter, he realizes the importance of this communication. "I don't know if this letter can reach you."
"But I'm writing it not for you to reply."
"I'm writing it… so that I'm not the only one silent."
In the midst of doubt, his hand trembles. Voidling floats gently on his shoulder, as if holding back a cry that cannot escape. Every second feels heavy like dark clouds hanging, waiting to burst into rain that never comes.
In the distance, Beelzebub stands, not approaching, but watching over. She knows that a letter like this is not meant to be read by anyone… except by those who will never reply. Fitran's heart trembles, as if creating a symphony of sorrow that only he can hear, among the shadows dancing under the moonlight.
"I will not apologize." "Because our love is not about right or wrong. It is born from things we never had the chance to write." His thoughts drift, flying back to times when her smile was the magic that erased all pain, leaving traces of hope in his soul.
Yet, even though we are separated by time and decisions, the memory of the past still haunts every step I take. In the shadows of his steps, every memory sparkles like morning dew trying to hide behind the bushes, bringing an unmatched sense of loneliness.
"You once called me foolish, remember?" "When I chose to save the children when the Void storm came, and let you be locked away longer." Those words fly, like birds that no longer have a place to perch, trapped in a heart full of hope and regret.
In moments like that, I miss your presence that always made me feel whole even in difficult times. Like the dim moonlight that pierces through the fog, bringing warmth in the cold of the night. I remember our laughter that once filled these empty corridors with colors that will never fade.
"I don't blame you for being angry." "But what I never got to say is: because I know, if I lose them… I might be able to endure." "But if I lose you… I won't know who I am anymore."
A realization emerges, that losing you is more painful than losing everything else. Every second passes like grains of sand slipping through fingers, reminding me that time is an unavoidable enemy, rolling memories into dust. In the darkness of the night, every star that shines seems to mock my foolishness for not being able to keep what is most precious.
"I love you, Rinoa."
With great hesitation, I write it. A mantra I want to cast into the sky, hoping those words will fly, finding their way to your heart. Then trying to cross it out, as if those words are too heavy to be contained on this paper. But the paper rejects the erasing ink, as if affirming the importance of that expression.
And Fitran finally surrenders… not to the wound, but to the courage to let that sentence endure.
In the chilling silence, the shadows of his past haunt him, as if all memories dance at the edge of his sight, wearing transparent white gowns and weaving soft sounds. Every second feels like thousands of years, leading him into an endless labyrinth, where every tick-tock of the clock is the sound of his heart lamenting.
As if the voice of my unspoken heart continues to echo in the painful silence. "The world no longer records you." "There are no glyphs that mention your name." "But I know: love does not need to be remembered by the world to remain alive."
In the midst of that silence, time seems to stop, like morning dew frozen in eternity, celebrating the unexpressed sorrow. Fitran feels as if he is lost in an endless cycle, staring into a mirror of shadows where he sees not only himself but also the parts of himself that are always lost.
In that silence, I find strength from the memories etched in my heart. "Because every time I write a new concept, I hear the shadow of your laughter." "Every time I fail to close the wound, I remember how you let that wound bleed." "Every time I want to give up, I know you would scoff… and laugh at how I fall."
As if on the brink of a dream, the sound of her laughter remains etched in his soul, awakening a revival between reality and illusion. A mantra that reminds him of the eternal love, even though their bodies are separated by an invisible distance, weaving their story in a confusing web of time.
Although sorrow envelops, there is a glimmer of hope that burns even if dim. In the midst of the darkness of the night, the shadows of memories sparkle like dew on leaves, waiting to be picked up again. Every breath that escapes feels heavy, as if containing the entire unspoken world. "You were never a goddess." "But you are the last will that makes me want to keep living."
"I don't know if I will meet you again." The voice of longing dances in the wind, encapsulating every hope and regret. In the dark, Fitran feels as if time has stopped, creating a long corridor between them. "And if so—I might not recognize you."
"But if someday you feel your hands trembling for no reason… or your steps heavy when looking at the sky… or your heart warming without cause…"
Those experiences are delicate traces in the heart, one by one lifting back the image of the lost figure. Like a glimmer of light in the darkness, that memory whispers touching the longing soul.
"…that's me, saying: I'm still here."
"And I still love you."
However, the letter was not sealed with magic. It felt warm in his grip, not much different from the heartbeat that still fights against the silence. As if every letter within it was filled with unseen magic, ready to break through the boundaries of time. Nor was it sent via pactum. There were no protective glyphs etched.
He simply rolled up the paper… and placed it in a small hole at the roots of an old tree. Everything was left to unite with the earth, rain, and time.
As if the earth absorbed every letter with love, carving it into the secrets of eternity. Cold sweat trickled down his temples as he felt the heartbeat of the tree, connected in an invisible dimension, sharing sorrow and hope in the silence of the night.
Then, "Because love that is not expressed," he said, "is still better than love that is forced to be reciprocated."
Within his words lies bitterness, like morning dew dripping on leaves, inviting questions and unanswerable longing. In the absence of a reply, there is an unexpected strength, uniting souls separated by distance and time.
In the midst of silence, Beelzebub does not ask about the contents of the letter. She does not force a smile. She simply says:
"You love her like I love you." "With a courage that knows… that it may never be returned."
For a moment, time seems to slip away, leaving them in a curve of nostalgia filled with emotion. Fitran feels as if every promise ever spoken flies like a dove, towards the gray sky filled with memories and unfulfilled dreams.
After reflecting on all that, Fitran replies:
"Then that is enough."
Even so, that last letter was never sent. But it was still written. Because love, even if never answered, is still more real… than a system that never questions.
In the thick darkness, that longing curls itself like fog, enveloping his heart with warmth full of pain. The night sky sparkles above him, as if holding all the hopes left between the abandoned words.