The day after visiting Tovin's home passed like a whisper—there, but almost not. Ravine spent most of it wandering Elessyr's narrow streets, trailing behind Arana in silence, their steps unhurried, unspoken. The conversations from the days before still hung heavy in the air, like a melody that lingered long after the last note had been played.
They had learned all they could from the walls of Tovin's old house. But the memory of him—of who he had been and how fiercely he had wanted to be remembered—pressed down on Ravine like a second skin.
The town square was nearly empty that evening. The breeze was light, but it carried with it the smell of rain-soaked wood and faint echoes of music, though no one was playing. Ravine sat at the edge of the fountain; eyes fixed on the gentle ripples that shimmered beneath the stone basin.
Arana stood a short distance away, arms folded, staring at a mural on the side of a bakery. It depicted figures playing instruments, dancing beneath a canopy of golden leaves. One figure—painted in deeper blues—held a violin and faced away from the others.
"Was that supposed to be him?" Ravine asked, breaking the stillness.
Arana didn't answer right away. "He painted it. Years ago. Said he wanted people to see joy even when he was gone."
"He never got it, did he?" Ravine whispered. "The memory he deserved."
"No," Arana said. "But not because he wasn't worthy. Because some people only remember what comforts them. Not what challenges them."
Ravine looked down at her hands. "Then what does it mean to be remembered the right way?"
Arana joined her at the fountain. "It means being seen—not just for your light, but your shadow too. It means being allowed to exist in truth, even when the truth is heavy."
Silence stretched between them, and Ravine felt it settle into her bones. She thought of Elarith Vale, of the first immortal whose silence had been louder than grief. She thought of Solmere Bastion. She thought of herself—of the names she had worn and the truths she had abandoned.
And she thought of Arana.
"You've carried him a long way," Ravine said softly. "Not just him. Everyone."
Arana's smile was thin, tired. "I keep wondering if there's a point. If remembering is enough."
Ravine turned to her. "It has to be."
For a moment, Arana looked as if she might speak—but then the sound of stringed music drifted across the square. A gentle, imperfect melody, played softly from somewhere just out of sight.
They followed the sound, each step heavier than the last. It led them to a shaded corner behind the town's library, where a young girl sat on a stone bench, playing a handmade instrument—wooden, cracked, and lovingly patched together.
She looked up at them and smiled.
"Did you know him?" she asked.
Arana nodded slowly. "We did."
"I found his old sheet music in the attic," the girl said. "No one plays it anymore. They said it's too strange. Makes people feel things."
"Music is supposed to do that," Ravine said.
The girl grinned. "That's what I think too."
She plucked another note, and the tune rose—hopeful and haunting.
Arana and Ravine stood quietly, listening as the melody built, a sound that felt like memory finding its voice. And for a moment, it was as if Tovin was there too—standing in the shadows, humming along, content not to be forgotten.
When the song ended, the girl looked up. "You can come here anytime. I'll be playing again tomorrow."
Arana thanked her, voice barely audible. They walked away together, the night folding in.
Back at the inn, Ravine lay in bed long after the lanterns were dimmed. Her mind replayed the music again and again. The girl's words echoed in her heart.
She thought of all those who had been lost. All who had been erased. All who had screamed into silence.
She would not let them fade.
She would remember.
She would make sure the world did too.