There was silence.
Malvor did not know if he should be angry or devastated. The story had shifted somewhere along the way, blurred between allegory and memory, between performance and truth. And he did not dare ask which parts were real.
She lifted her wine glass and drank slowly, her hand perfectly steady.
"You asked for a story," she said calmly, setting the glass down. "So I told you one."
He exhaled slowly. "You always go straight for the emotional jugular, don't you?"
A smirk ghosted across her lips. "You love it."
And gods help him, he did.
"Well," Malvor drawled, swirling his wine lazily, "Annie mia regina, you are officially the most depressing storyteller I have ever had the misfortune of falling for."
She gave him a flat look, unimpressed.
"Tell me something happy," he pressed, nudging her playfully with his foot. "Funny. Whimsical. Something that does not involve betrayal, dismemberment, or the cruelty of men."
Annie sighed, dramatic, long, exaggerated. "Fine," she said, stretching her neck as if warming up to tell the story with a flourish. Then she leaned back in her chair, eyes turning wistful. A soft smile bloomed on her face, different from her usual smirks and guarded expressions. This one was open. Innocent. Almost glowing.
"When I was six," she began, "my parents took me to the mountains. It was late summer, one of those perfect days when the sun warms your skin, but the breeze still smells like pine and melted snow."
Malvor's mind immediately began painting the scene. The two of them on a blanket, nestled in a meadow surrounded by tall green pines. The sun filtering through the trees like golden mist. A tiny, younger Annie running barefoot in the grass, laughing freely.
"We had this horrible old picnic blanket," she said with a laugh. "Red and white checkered, frayed at the corners. My dad made peanut butter sandwiches, and he burned them. Don't ask how. He burned peanut butter sandwiches."
Malvor chuckled along with her, amused and captivated. He pictured the father, large, bearded maybe, scratching his head in confusion while holding a smoking pan. The mother, swatting at bees with a paperback, yelling something like "They are more afraid of you!" while clearly not believing it.
"My mom was obsessed with keeping things neat. She kept brushing crumbs off the blanket even as the wind brought in more. But when I giggled at her, she started laughing too. It was... beautiful."
Annie smiled again, eyes unfocused, as if she were seeing it in front of her. "They let me chase butterflies. I had these little purple shoes I refused to wear, so I just ran around barefoot until my feet were green from the grass. And my mom, she braided flowers into my hair. Tiny little blue ones. I don't remember what they were called. Just that I felt... beautiful."
Malvor could not breathe for a moment. His heart actually ached in his chest. He imagined a small girl with messy curls and flower chains, twirling until she fell onto the blanket, breathless from joy. He imagined her being seen. Cherished.
"And then," she continued softly, "they held my hands and we watched the glorious sunset together. It painted the whole sky in orange and gold and violet. My dad said, 'Remember this forever. This is what real love looks like.' And I did. I remembered."
She smiled, quiet, beautiful, and radiant.
And gods above and below, Malvor believed her.
Every word. Every detail. It felt so real. The joy on her face was not fake. Her eyes sparkled. Her posture relaxed. She glowed.
Until—
He reached out. Not with his hand, but with his connection. Their bond. That ever-present link between their souls.
And he felt...
Nothing.
No joy.
No lingering love.
Just a quiet ache. A hollow space where the memory should have been.
His heart dropped. It was not real.
The story was a beautiful lie.
But instead of saying anything, he sat there, stunned, still holding her hand. Because if she had to make up happiness, if she had to invent a moment of being loved and cherished just to have one—
Then he would let her keep it.
He squeezed her hand gently and whispered, "Sounds like they loved you very much."
Her smile faltered just a bit. But she did not correct him.
And he said nothing more.
He just watched her hold onto the memory that never was and vowed to give her better ones. Ones that did not need to be fabricated. Ones that were real. Ones that involved him.