Morning sunlight filtered softly through the kitchen window, casting muted gold across the table where Holly, Lila, and Marissa sat. The world outside moved forward as if it hadn’t shattered. Inside, the apartment was still quiet, still grieving.

  Holly had called the lawyer who had helped her and Ariel put together their last will and testament a year prior. It had been a strange call to make, her voice distant and mechanical. Now, the three of them sat waiting. The lawyer was due any minute.

  Marissa gently stirred a spoon through her tea, the tiny clink of ceramic against ceramic the only sound in the room. Lila sat beside her, fingers laced tightly together, eyes focused on nothing in particular. Holly sat opposite them, elbows on the table, staring into her untouched coffee.

  "He said he’d be here by ten," Holly murmured, voice low, raspy from sleep and the weight of everything.

  "That’s not far off," Lila replied softly, glancing at the clock. "Fifteen minutes or so."

  Marissa looked up. "Did you sleep at all?"

  Holly blinked, as if she hadn’t understood the question at first. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "No. I tried. But... I kept thinking if I closed my eyes, I’d forget her face."

  Lila reached out and gently rested her hand over Holly’s.

  "You won’t," she said.

  "You couldn’t if you tried," Marissa added. "She’s... everywhere in this place. Every room. Every corner."

  Holly managed a small, sharp breath that might've been a laugh or a sob. "I found her notes last night. The ones she used to leave in the fridge to mess with me. She had this thing where she'd leave a post-it that said, 'Left you something spicy' and it was always...like... a bag of baby carrots."

  Marissa gave a sad chuckle. "She always did have a weird sense of humor."

  "Yeah," Holly said, voice cracking. "She was a weirdo. My weirdo."

  A silence settled over them, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. It stretched for a long moment before Lila spoke again.

  "Do you remember that time she tried to fix the garbage disposal and it shorted out because she accidentally dropped a spoon in it—but somehow managed to rewire the breaker box all on her own after watching one video?"

  Holly's lips twitched. For the first time that morning, she smiled. A real one. It didn’t last long, but it flickered there, honest and aching.

  A knock at the door interrupted the moment.

  Holly exhaled slowly. "That'll be him."

  She stood, the movement slow, every joint in her body stiff with exhaustion and grief. Lila followed close behind, a steadying presence. Holly opened the door, her expression softening into something polite and hollow.

  The lawyer stepped inside, his face drawn and professional. "Mrs. Sinclair. I’m so sorry for your loss."

  Holly nodded and stepped aside to let him in. "Thank you. Come sit. We’re ready."

  The conversation that followed was slow and heavy. The lawyer laid out forms, one after another, going through the language of the will with careful, neutral explanation. Names. Beneficiaries. Specific items and intentions. Holly’s hands trembled every time he said Ariel’s full name followed by the past tense. She nodded and signed where he showed her. Lila and Marissa sat in silence, witnesses to the reality that was settling around Holly.

  When everything was nearly done, the lawyer began packing up his briefcase. But as he stood, he paused. "Ah—before I go, there’s one more thing."

  He reached into the leather case, rifling through folders until he pulled out a white envelope, slightly thick, its flap sealed tightly.

  He held it out to Holly. "She left this. Asked me to give it to you if... well."

  Holly looked at it, hesitant, then reached out and took it.

  The lawyer gave a nod, his expression grim with sympathy. "Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch with the final paperwork."

  He turned and left, the apartment falling back into quiet.

  Marissa leaned forward gently. "What is it?"

  Holly stared at the envelope in her hands. Written across the front, in Ariel’s unmistakable handwriting, were two simple words:

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  My Violet.

  Holly stood suddenly, her chair scraping softly against the floor. "Excuse me," she muttered, clutching the envelope to her chest as she stepped away from the table.

  Lila and Marissa watched her go, sharing a look of quiet concern, but neither moved to follow.

  Holly slipped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. The silence inside was different. Heavier. More intimate. The bed was still unmade from yesterday morning, pillows dented where Ariel’s head had rested. Sunlight touched the floor in warm stripes. She sat at the edge of the bed, the envelope in her lap.

  She didn’t open it right away.

  She stared. At the curve of Ariel’s letters. At the way she wrote “Violet,” soft and looping, just like she always had when teasing Holly in little notes. The word blurred as tears welled in her eyes again.

  Her thoughts raced. Was this going to break her? Or save her? Could anything do either now?

  Finally, with hands trembling and heart pounding, Holly tore open the flap.

  She unfolded the letter inside and began to read.

  My Holly,

  If you’re reading this, then we didn’t have as much time together as we thought we would. I hate that thought more than anything in the world, but I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving you without words, without the chance to tell you everything one last time.

  First, thank you. For seeing me. For pulling me out of that coffee shop corner and refusing to let me hide from you. For feeding me dumplings and laughter and love when I thought all I’d ever have was silence. You gave me a home when I didn’t believe I deserved one. You gave me family when I thought I’d lost the chance. You gave me you.

  I love you, Holly.

  You have been the greatest joy of my life. Everything I’ve done, every word I’ve written, every line of code, every talk I’ve given, it all has your fingerprints on it. You were always right there: cheering me on, steadying me when my hands shook, reminding me to breathe. If people think of me as the Red Phoenix, it’s only because you were my flame all along.

  I was always happiest when I was your Red. Your Ariel.

  I know you, Holly. Right now, you’re probably blaming yourself. You’re probably thinking you could have protected me, or kept me safe, or that you should have been there in some way. Please hear me when I tell you: this is not your fault. It never could be. The only reason I made it this far—the only reason I burned so brightly—is because of you.

  If I could choose a thousand lives, I would choose this one, over and over, just to love you once more. I would choose the laughter in our kitchen, the way you tuck plushies into our shelves, the sound of your voice when you call me Red. I would choose every meal, every late-night cuddle, every ridiculous joke you’ve ever made. I would choose the fire and the quiet after, the triumphs and the tears. I would choose you. Always you.

  Please don’t stop living, my love. Eat too many pancakes. Play too many games. Dance in the living room when no one’s watching. Build the life we dreamed of, even if I can’t be beside you. You deserve all of it, Holly. All the joy this world can hold. And if you ever feel lonely, look around you. You built a family here. You’re not alone, and you never will be.

  Most of all, remember this: I loved you with everything I am. Not for a season, not for a moment, but with the kind of love that rewrote me from the inside out. That love doesn’t end here. It never will. It lives in you now.

  So live boldly, my love. Laugh loudly. Love fiercely. And when you look at the sky, know that somewhere, somehow, I’m looking back, whispering what I’ll never stop whispering:

  You’re my flame. You’re my home… You’re my Violet.

  And I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.

  Always your Red,

  Ariel

  By the time she finished reading, Holly was clutching the letter against her chest, curled forward on the bed. The paper crinkled faintly beneath her grip, warm now from her touch. She could feel her heart pounding against it, as if hoping to reach through the page and find Ariel on the other side. Her shoulders trembled, and her breath came in ragged, silent sobs. But beneath the pain, something flickered. Something faint….something impossible.

  A piece of Ariel still lived here. The air still held the faintest trace of her favorite lavender lotion, and the blanket beside Holly smelled like Ariel’s shampoo—citrusy and clean. It hit her like a memory and a presence all at once, making her eyes well up again. In that moment, it was as if Ariel had only just left the room.

  In the paper. In the ink. In the words that wrapped around her like arms.

  And Holly held on to them like life itself. She rocked gently where she sat, her hands tightening around the letter as though it might disappear if she loosened her grip. Her lips parted in a whisper—Ariel’s name, barely audible—as she closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath, trying to memorize the scent of the paper, the feeling of her name written in Ariel’s hand.

  Lila folded the letter gently and placed it back on the table. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the paper, as if letting go might break something. Marissa sat back in her chair, dabbing at her cheeks with her sleeve. The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive. It was reverent. Fragile.

  “She wrote that… knowing you would need to hear those words, just in case,” Marissa finally said, her voice thick. “She really knew what to say.”

  “She always did,” Lila murmured. “It’s like... she reached right into our chests and found the words we couldn’t say ourselves.”

  Holly stayed quiet. Her arms were folded over her stomach like she was holding herself together. She looked down at the table, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Marissa reached over and placed a hand on hers. “Thank you for sharing it.”

  “I didn’t know if I should,” Holly replied, voice gravelly. “But I didn’t want to carry it alone.”

  “You don’t have to,” Lila said softly.

  The three of them sat there for a long while. No plans. No next steps. Just holding still in the ache of it all. At some point, Marissa quietly got up and made more tea, setting down the warm mugs like an offering. Holly wrapped her fingers around the ceramic without drinking.

  They talked in fragments after that. Memories surfaced like driftwood. Lila brought up the time Ariel had made pancakes in the shape of every Final Fantasy mascot she could. Marissa recalled the time Ariel had brought a handmade plushie to the pop culture museum and insisted on “donating” it to their exhibit on digital fandoms. They laughed in short, sad bursts, and each time, the silence that followed grew a little less sharp.