I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear Dylan's voice through Cecil's door.
"...I'm sorry."
I freeze mid-step, my hand hovering over the banister.
Dylan doesn't apologize. Not like this—quiet, genuine, vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone see.
"I shouldn't have asked," Dylan continues, his voice muffled but clear enough. "During the game. That question—I knew it made you uncomfortable and I pushed anyway. I'm sorry, Cecil."
There's a pause. Then Cecil's voice, softer than I've heard it in days. "It's okay. Really. You didn't know."
"Still. I should've been more careful."
"Dylan." Cecil's tone shifts—firmer, reassuring. "I forgive you. It's fine."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Thank you," Dylan says finally.
I should move. Keep walking. Give them privacy.
But my feet are rooted to the floor, and something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
Dylan apologized. He recognized he'd crossed a line and he fixed it.
Meanwhile, I'm standing out here in the hallway, holding onto a secret that could shatter everything.
I know about your past life.
I know you jumped off a building.
I know you died.
I know you blame yourself for your mother's death.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, unspoken, poisonous.
How long have I been carrying this? Weeks now. Every time I look at Cecil, I see the fractured edges of his aura and I know what caused them. But I haven't said a word.
Because I'm terrified.
Terrified that if I bring it up wrong, if I push too hard, if I corner him when he's not ready—
He'll do something dangerous.
The image flashes through my mind unbidden: Cecil standing on a rooftop, wind whipping through his hair, that same hollow look in his eyes that I sometimes catch when he thinks no one's watching.
He didn't hesitate before. What's to stop him from doing it again?
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
You're a coward, Keith.
Dylan had the guts to apologize for something that happened during a stupid game. And here I am, hiding behind excuses, pretending everything's fine while Cecil walks around with the weight of a past life crushing him.
I hear movement inside the room—footsteps, the rustle of blankets. Dylan's voice again, quieter now, probably saying goodnight.
I force my legs to move, slipping past Cecil's door as quietly as possible. My heart hammers against my ribs, guilt churning in my stomach.
Back in my own room, I close the door and lean against it, staring at the ceiling.
I have to tell him.
I have to.
But how? How do you bring up something like that without destroying the fragile trust we've rebuilt? Without sending him spiraling?
Hey Cecil, so funny story—I know you died in your past life and I've been keeping it from you. Hope that's cool.
Yeah. That'll go over great.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. This isn't like me. I'm not the one who hesitates. I'm not the one who second-guesses.
But with Cecil, everything's different.
Because losing him isn't an option.
Not again.
I cross to my window and stare out at the city lights, my reflection ghosting over the glass. My own eyes stare back at me—determined, worried, desperate.
You can't keep hiding from this.
Mum's voice echoes in my memory. "You wait. You let him come to you."
But what if waiting is the wrong choice? What if Cecil finds out I knew and thinks I was using it against him? What if keeping this secret does more damage than telling the truth?
What if he does something before I get the chance to tell him?
My chest tightens at the thought.
No. I can't just wait and hope everything works out.
I need to tell him. Soon. Before he learns that I know and before the weight of this secret crushes whatever trust we have left.
But I need to do it right.
Because if I say the wrong thing, if I approach it the wrong way, if I push when I should pull—
I could lose him forever.
My gaze drifts to the clock on my nightstand. 2:47 AM.
The apartment is quiet. Dylan's probably asleep by now. Cecil too, judging by the silence that followed their conversation.
Perfect.
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and pull it on, moving quietly toward the door. My hand rests on the knob for a moment, hesitation flickering through me.
What if something happens while you're gone?
The thought makes my chest tighten. What if Cecil has a nightmare? What if he wakes up and needs someone? What if he spirals and there's no one there to—
Stop.
I force the thoughts away. Dylan's here. Dylan will notice if something's wrong. Dylan will protect him.
And this is why I'm leaving. Because I need to know how to handle this without making things worse.
I slip out of my room and make my way down the hallway, pausing outside Cecil's door. It's closed, the faint sound of steady breathing filtering through the gap at the bottom.
He's asleep.
Relief and anxiety war in my chest. He's safe. For now.
Please still be here when I get back.
Please be okay.
Please don't do anything dangerous while I'm gone.
I shake my head, forcing the paranoia down. He's not going anywhere. Dylan's here. The apartment is secure.
Everything will be fine.
I repeat it like a mantra as I head for the front door, grabbing my keys from the hook. The metal feels cold against my palm, grounding.
Outside, the night air is crisp and sharp, cutting through the fog in my head. The city sprawls out before me, streetlights casting long shadows across empty sidewalks.
I close my eyes and reach for that familiar pull—the one that connects me to the celestial realm. Heaven isn't a place you can just walk to. You have to feel your way there.
The world shifts.
Color bleeds away, replaced by soft, ethereal light. The ground beneath my feet changes from concrete to something that feels like clouds but holds my weight like solid earth.
I open my eyes.
Heaven.
It never stops being surreal—the way everything here feels both impossibly distant and intimately close. Like existing in a dream that's more real than waking life.
I don't waste time taking in the scenery. I've been here enough times to know my way around, though I usually avoid this particular destination.
The gardens.
Specifically, his garden.
The God of Pain doesn't exactly advertise his location, but if you know where to look—if you know what signs to follow—you can find him.
I follow the path that grows darker as I walk, the soft light of heaven dimming into something quieter, more somber.
The flowers here aren't the bright, cheerful blooms you see in the rest of the celestial gardens. These are night-blooming flowers, pale and ghostly, their petals tinged with silver and shadow.
And there, sitting on a stone bench beneath a tree with black leaves, is the God of Pain.
He doesn't look up as I approach. Doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
He's exactly as I remember—dressed entirely in black, the fabric seeming to absorb the light around him.
His skin is pale, almost translucent, like he's carved from marble. His hair is so white it's nearly colorless, falling in soft waves around his face.
And his eyes.
When he finally does look up, his eyes are the color of blood.
Not red. Not crimson. Blood. Fresh and dark and unsettlingly vivid against the rest of his colorless appearance.
"Kairos," he says quietly. His voice is soft, almost a whisper, but it carries perfectly in the stillness of the garden.
I stop a few feet away, suddenly uncertain. "I need to talk to you."
He doesn't respond immediately. Just watches me with those unnerving eyes, waiting.
The God of Pain doesn't waste words. If he has nothing important to say, he says nothing at all.
So I forge ahead. "There's someone—someone very important to me. And I need to tell them something. Something painful. Something that could..." I trail off, searching for the right words. "Something that could break them if I do it wrong."
His expression doesn't change. He simply inclines his head slightly, a gesture that might mean go on or might mean I'm listening or might mean absolutely nothing at all.
I take a breath. "This person has been through... a lot. They carry trauma I can't even begin to understand. And I know something about their past—something deeply personal—that they don't know I know."
Still no response. Just that steady, blood-red gaze.
"If I tell them, it could destroy the trust we've built. But if I don't tell them, and they find out I knew..." I run a hand through my hair. "Either way, I could lose them. And I can't— I can't lose them."
Silence stretches between us.
Then, finally, the God of Pain speaks.
"Why do you need to tell them?"
His voice is so quiet I almost miss it. But the question cuts straight to the heart of everything I've been wrestling with.
"Because..." I hesitate. "Because keeping it secret feels like lying. Because they deserve to know that I know. Because I want to help them, but I can't do that if I'm pretending I don't understand what they're carrying."
"And what are they carrying?"
I swallow hard. "Guilt. Trauma. Self-hatred. They blame themselves for something that wasn't their fault. And in their past life, that guilt..." My voice cracks. "It led them to jump off a building."
The God of Pain's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the air around us. A heaviness that wasn't there before.
"And you fear they will do it again."
It's not a question.
"Yes," I whisper.
He stands slowly, gracefully, and moves toward one of the pale flowers. His fingers brush against the petals with surprising gentleness.
"Pain is not something you can remove from someone," he says quietly. "You cannot take it away, no matter how much you love them. No matter how desperately you wish to."
"I know that. I just—"
"But you can stand beside them while they carry it." He turns to look at me, and for the first time, there's something almost warm in those blood-red eyes. "You can share the weight. Make it lighter. Not gone, but bearable."
I nod, my throat tight.
"How do I tell them? How do I bring it up without making everything worse?"
The God of Pain is quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant.
"The wrong moment is when they are cornered," he says finally. "When they feel trapped, exposed, with no way out. That is when pain becomes unbearable. That is when people make choices they cannot take back."
My hands clench into fists. "Then when is the right moment?"
"When they feel safe. When they are grounded. When they have space to react without feeling like the world is collapsing around them."
"But how do I know when that is?"
"You don't." He turns back to the flowers. "You can only create the conditions for safety and hope they trust you enough to lower their guard."
"What if they don't?"
"Then you wait. And you continue to prove you are safe. Until they do."
Frustration builds in my chest. "I don't know how long I can wait. What if something happens before—"
"Then you will live with that grief." His voice is impossibly gentle for such harsh words. "But rushing in before they are ready will not prevent it. It will only ensure they face their pain alone, because they will not trust you to stand beside them."
The truth of it hits me like a physical blow.
"So what do I do?"
The God of Pain turns to face me fully. "You tell them you know. But you do it carefully. You do not corner them. You do not demand answers. You simply... open the door."
"Open the door?"
"Let them know you are aware. That you understand. That you do not judge them for what they have carried. And then—" He pauses. "Then you wait for them to decide whether to walk through that door or not."
"And if they don't?"
"Then you respect that choice. And you continue to be present. To be safe. To be patient."
I close my eyes, letting his words sink in.
Open the door. Don't force them through it.
"How do I start?" I ask quietly. "What do I say?"
The God of Pain is silent for so long I think he might not answer. Then—
"Start with truth. Tell them you know they are carrying something heavy. Tell them you see their pain, even if they try to hide it. Tell them you are not afraid of it. And tell them—" His voice softens. "Tell them they are not alone anymore."
My eyes burn.
"And if they ask how I know?"
"Be honest. Without betraying the trust of whoever told you. Say that someone who cares about them shared their concern. That you wanted to understand so you could help. And then—let them decide what to do with that information."
"What if they get angry?"
"They might. Anger is often easier than vulnerability." He looks at me with those unsettling eyes. "But if they are truly important to you, you will weather that anger. You will not run. You will not defend yourself. You will simply... stay."
"Even if they push me away?"
"Especially then."
I take a shaky breath. "This is terrifying."
"Love often is."
The word hangs in the air between us.
Love.
He's right. That's what this is. That's what it's always been.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
The God of Pain inclines his head slightly. "One more thing."
I wait.
"The person you care for—they do not believe they deserve to be saved. They do not believe they are worth the effort you are willing to give."
My chest tightens. "I know."
"Then show them. Not with grand gestures. Not with declarations. But with presence. With patience. With the quiet, steady reminder that you are here. That you will continue to be here. No matter what."
"I will."
"And Kairos—" He turns away, back toward his flowers. "Do not wait too long. Fear is understandable. But prolonged silence can be as damaging as careless words."
"How do I know when the right time is?"
"You will feel it. The moment when the risk of staying silent outweighs the risk of speaking." His voice fades to barely a whisper. "Trust yourself. You know this person better than you think."
I nod, even though he's no longer looking at me.
"Thank you," I say again.
He doesn't respond. Just continues tending to his pale flowers, his black-clad form nearly disappearing into the shadows of the garden.
I take that as my cue to leave.
The walk back through the gardens feels shorter somehow. Or maybe I'm just too lost in thought to notice the distance.
Open the door. Don't force them through.
Be honest.
Be present.
Be patient.
Show them they're not alone.
I can do that. I will do that.
The world shifts again as I cross back into the mortal realm, color and noise flooding back in a rush. The city is still dark, still quiet, the streetlights still casting their long shadows.
I check my phone. 4:13 AM.
I've been gone for over an hour, though it felt like minutes.
The apartment is exactly as I left it when I slip back inside—dark, quiet, peaceful. I move through the hallway on silent feet, checking Cecil's door again.
Still closed. Still silent.
Relief floods through me.
He's okay. He's safe. He's here.
In my own room, I shed my jacket and collapse onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.
I have a plan now. Not a perfect one, but a plan.
I'll wait for the right moment. The moment when Cecil feels safe, grounded, ready to hear what I have to say.
And when that moment comes, I'll open the door.
I'll tell him I know. That I see him. That I understand.
And then I'll wait—for however long it takes—for him to decide whether to walk through that door or not.
Because that's what you do when you love someone.
You give them the choice.
Even when it terrifies you.
Even when you don't know what they'll choose.
Even when every instinct screams at you to grab them and hold on and never let go.
You give them the choice.
And you pray they choose to trust you.
Please trust me, Cecil.
Please let me help you.
I close my eyes, exhaustion finally catching up with me.
Tomorrow—well, today now—I'll figure out the specifics. I'll figure out when and where and how to have this conversation.
But for now, I just need to rest.
Because when the time comes, I need to be ready.
Ready to open the door.
Ready to stand beside him while he carries his pain.
Ready to show him that he's not a monster.
That he never was.
That he's worth saving.
Worth loving.
Worth everything.
I'll be here, Cecil. For as long as it takes.
I promise.