“Anastasia… we will gradually lose all our memories.”
Damir stared intently into Anna’s eyes, as if trying to kill her confusion with his gaze.
“First those from that world, then from this world… and in the end, I fear we’ll even forget ourselves.”
Damir’s words were like a seed buried in Anna’s Heart, uncertain of when it would break through the soil, take root, and grow.
“Thank you for your advice, Damir.”
Unconsciously, Anna’s grip tightened, inadvertently waking the sleeping Ophelia.
“Anna…” Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, only to see the fog-like gloom clouding Anna’s face. In an instant, her gaze turned as sharp as an ice awl, stabbing directly at Damir’s eyes.
Frost clung to Damir’s legs like creeping vines, threatening to freeze him into a block of ice.
“It’s not about him, Ophelia.”
Anna held Ophelia’s hand tightly, afraid that if she let go, Ophelia would vanish before her eyes.
“Anna… what’s really wrong?”
From Anna’s palm came a trembling, not from nervousness or any other feeling, but a raw, unreserved fear—the Fear of losing something beloved before her very eyes.
Ophelia knew it must have something to do with her.
“Anna.”
But Anna didn’t dislike this feeling. Whether it was the moist breath or the warmth of an earlobe, she was intoxicated by it all.
“Ophelia.”
Her voice was as faint as the gentle rustle of leaves outside the tent.
“I’m here.”
“Ophelia.”
“I’m here.”
Ophelia responded again and again to Anna’s call.
Moonlight poured in through the open tent flap, quietly bathing the two embraced figures.
She didn’t know what Anna feared, only that the future was vague and insubstantial, but the pain of the present was all too real.
“Ophelia, I’m afraid.”
Anna curled herself up, trying to hide in Ophelia’s embrace.
“I’m here, always.”
Ophelia’s fingertips gently brushed Anna’s cheek, from the line of her jaw to the tip of her nose, from her nose down to her lips, and continued downward, finally pausing over the bruise left by her own kisses and nibbles.
“I don’t know what Anna is afraid of. But I can promise this: even if one day something tries to take Anna away from me…” Ophelia seized Anna’s hand, gently pressing it to her own chest. Through a thin layer of fabric, Anna could clearly feel the Heart beating in that chest.
Thump, thump—it beat strong and steady, as if making a vow.
“I’ll bring you Home, Anna.”
Ophelia’s final kiss landed at the corner of Anna’s lips, their usual vow.
Home. Anna savored the word in her Heart.
Yes, Home—their Home.
Tiny, cramped, with sunlight sometimes failing even to reach the windowsill.
Yet in that place, they lived together, laughed together. By day, Ophelia would watch her head out and leave a parting kiss on her cheek; at noon, she’d come back, tie on an apron and prepare a meal, eating something warm with Ophelia; in the evening, they’d play and wash each other in the bath, baring their scars; and at night, they’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, the sharp scent of Snow Pine by their pillows.
In the morning, Ophelia always rose a little later, muttering complaints about Anna sleeping on her hair during the night.
Such a small house carried all her life and dreams, unrelated to Glory or Mission, only the plainness enduring.
There was someone waiting for her to come Home. There was someone who would bring her Home.
Some say love can dispel all worry, and Anna believed it deeply. With her kisses and gentle bites, with pain and tenderness, Ophelia repeated “I’m here,” again and again, using love to build a wall against the destined Fear of Forgetting.
To say she wasn’t afraid would be a lie, but Anna always felt she could summon the courage to face that unknown Forgetting.
As long as there was love, as long as she was there.