The garden has become my entire world.
Three days in—or what feels like three days, time moves strangely in the celestial realm—and I still can't quite wrap my head around how much there is to learn.
Tenebrae doesn't teach like anyone I've ever known. There are no lectures, no diagrams, no neat bullet points to memorize.
Instead, he asks questions.
Endless, probing, uncomfortable questions.
We're sitting in his garden again, surrounded by those pale, ghostly flowers. The eternal twilight casts everything in shades of silver and shadow. Tenebrae is tending to a particularly delicate bloom, his white hair falling forward to hide his expression.
"Tell me again," he says quietly. "Why does this person believe they are a monster?"
I've answered this question at least a dozen times already. Each time, Tenebrae listens with absolute attention, then asks me to explain it again, slightly differently.
It's infuriating.
And effective.
Because each time I explain it, I understand it a little better.
"Because his mother died giving birth to him," I say, watching my hands. "He believes he killed her. That if he'd never existed, she'd still be alive."
"And is that true?"
"No. Of course not. It was a medical complication. It wasn't his fault."
"But he believes it was."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I want to snap that I just explained why, but I force myself to think deeper.
"Because..." I pause, searching for the right words. "Because grief needs a target. And when you're a child who's lost a parent, sometimes the only target available is yourself."
Tenebrae nods slowly, his blood-red eyes lifting to meet mine. "Continue."
"His father reinforced that belief. Maybe not intentionally at first, but through his actions. The drinking. The gambling. The neglect. All of it said 'I can't cope with what happened,' which Cecil internalized as 'I can't cope with *you*.'"
"And so the child learned..."
"That he was the problem. That he was the cause of all the pain. That if he'd never been born, everyone would be better off."
The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Tenebrae sets down the flower he's been tending and turns to face me fully.
"You understand the foundation," he says. "But understanding is not enough. Tell me—if you were to approach this person tomorrow and tell them 'it's not your fault,' what would happen?"
I don't even have to think about it. "He wouldn't believe me."
"Why?"
"Because he's been carrying this guilt for his entire life. One conversation won't undo years of deeply ingrained belief."
"Exactly." Tenebrae stands, moving toward a different section of the garden. "So what would you do instead?"
I follow him, my mind racing through possibilities.
"I would... I would try to show him, over time, that he's not responsible for other people's choices. That his father's drinking wasn't about him. That his mother's death wasn't about him. That he deserves to exist without carrying the weight of things he couldn't control."
"Better," Tenebrae says. "But still incomplete."
"What am I missing?"
He stops beside a flower that's darker than the others, its petals almost black. "You're approaching this as if you need to convince him he's wrong. But pain doesn't respond to logic, Kairos. It responds to safety."
"I don't understand."
"This person has built their entire identity around the belief that they are a monster. That they are responsible for unforgivable harm. If you try to dismantle that belief too quickly, too forcefully, what happens to their sense of self?"
The realization hits me like cold water.
"It collapses."
"Yes. And when a person's fundamental understanding of themselves collapses, they panic. They grasp for anything familiar, even if that familiar thing is pain." Tenebrae's voice is impossibly gentle. "Even if that familiar thing is a rooftop."
My hands clench into fists.
"So what do I do? Just let him keep believing he's a monster?"
"No. You create space for him to discover, on his own terms, that he might not be."
"How?"
Tenebrae kneels beside the dark flower, his pale fingers tracing its petals with reverence.
"You give him experiences that contradict his belief. Not through argument, but through action. You show him care without expecting him to earn it. You show him forgiveness without demanding he atone. You show him that his existence brings joy, not suffering."
"And if he doesn't believe it? If he pushes back?"
"Then you remain consistent. You do not waver. You do not withdraw your care when he tests whether it's real." Tenebrae looks up at me. "Because he will test it, Kairos. People who believe they're unworthy of love will always test whether that love is conditional."
I sink onto the grass beside him, the weight of it all pressing down on my shoulders.
"This is going to take a long time, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Months. Maybe years."
"Perhaps."
"And there's no guarantee it'll work."
"No. There isn't."
I stare at the dark flower, watching the way it seems to absorb the dim light around it.
"But I have to try," I say quietly.
"Why?"
The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean, why? Because I love him. Because I can't just stand by and watch him suffer."
"Even if helping him means staying away for a week? Missing moments with him? Potentially causing him pain in the short term for the possibility of healing in the long term?"
I think about the note I left. About Dylan texting me, angry and confused. About Cecil waking up to find me gone without explanation.
About the hurt I've probably already caused.
"Yes," I say finally. "Even then."
For the first time since I arrived, Tenebrae smiles.
It's small, barely a curve of his lips, but it transforms his entire face. The severity softens. The otherworldly pallor becomes almost warm.
"That," he says quietly, "is why you will succeed."
My throat tightens. "You really think so?"
"I think anyone willing to endure their own pain to alleviate someone else's has already understood the most important lesson." He returns his attention to the flower. "Love is not about grand gestures or perfect words. It's about consistent presence, even when it's difficult. Especially when it's difficult."
I watch him tend to the dark bloom with such careful attention, such obvious care.
"Is that why you're the God of Pain?" I ask. "Because you understand how to hold it without letting it destroy you?"
"I am the God of Pain because I have carried more of it than most beings can comprehend." His voice is matter-of-fact, not self-pitying. "And I learned that pain, when acknowledged and held with compassion, can become something else. Not gone, but transformed."
"Into what?"
"Strength. Wisdom. Empathy." He pauses. "Love."
We sit in silence for a while, the eternal twilight unchanging around us.
"Tell me about the moment you need to prepare for," Tenebrae says eventually. "The conversation where you reveal that you know."
My stomach clenches. "I don't know when it'll happen. Or how."
"Then we plan for multiple scenarios. Walk me through them."
I take a breath, organizing my thoughts.
"Scenario one: I initiate the conversation. I find a moment when Cecil seems calm, grounded, safe. I tell him that I know about his past, that Aethera told me, and that I want to help."
"And how might he respond?"
"Anger. Betrayal. He might feel violated that Aethera looked into his memories, that I've been keeping this knowledge from him."
"What would you do with that anger?"
"Accept it. Don't defend myself or Aethera. Just... let him be angry. Validate that he has every right to feel that way."
Tenebrae nods. "Continue."
"Scenario two: He figures it out on his own. Notices that I'm treating him differently, asks questions, puts the pieces together."
"That one may be more difficult," Tenebrae observes. "Because he will have time to build narratives about why you've been hiding it."
"I know." The thought makes my chest tight. "He might think I was using it against him somehow. Or that I pity him. Or that I think he's weak."
"How would you counter those narratives?"
"By being honest. By explaining that I wasn't hiding it to hurt him, I was waiting for the right moment to talk about it. That I came here, to you, specifically to learn how to approach it without causing more pain."
"Would he believe you?"
I hesitate. "I don't know. Maybe not at first. But if I'm consistent, if I show him through my actions that I'm not going anywhere..."
"Then perhaps, eventually, he will."
We move through more scenarios—what if Cecil has a breakdown, what if he tries to run, what if he shuts down completely. For each possibility, Tenebrae guides me through potential responses, always emphasizing patience, consistency, safety.
By the time we pause, my head is spinning with information.
"There's one more thing," Tenebrae says, standing and brushing off his black clothes. "The most important thing."
"What?"
"When you tell him, you must be prepared for the possibility that he will not want your help."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"What?"
"He may not be ready to let go of his pain yet. It has been his companion for so long, his explanation for everything difficult in his life. Releasing it means stepping into unknown territory, and that can be more terrifying than holding onto familiar suffering."
"But he can't just—he can't keep living like this—"
"He can. And he might choose to." Tenebrae's blood-red eyes are impossibly gentle. "Your role is not to force him to heal, Kairos. Your role is to make space for healing to be possible, so he chooses it."
"And if he doesn't choose it?"
"Then you love him anyway. You remain present anyway. You continue to offer safety and care, without demanding he change to deserve it."
I close my eyes, fighting against the frustration building in my chest.
"That's not fair."
"No. It isn't."
"I just want to help him."
"I know."
"I want him to see himself the way I see him."
"I know."
"I want—" My voice cracks. "I want him to be okay."
Tenebrae's hand settles on my shoulder, cool and grounding.
"Then you show him, every day, that 'okay' is possible. You model it. You create an environment where he can observe what it looks like to exist without constant self-punishment." His grip tightens slightly. "And you trust that he is strong enough to find his own path toward it, even if that path takes longer than you'd like."
I open my eyes, staring up at the eternal twilight sky.
"This is the hardest thing I've ever done."
"Yes."
"And I haven't even had the conversation yet."
"No."
"And when I do, there's no guarantee any of this will work."
"Correct."
I laugh, the sound harsh and tired. "Why did I think this was a good idea again?"
Tenebrae's smile returns, small and knowing. "Because you love him more than you fear the difficulty of helping him."
The truth of it settles in my chest, heavy and undeniable.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I do."
"Then you will endure. You will learn. And when the time comes, you will trust yourself to find the right words."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you will apologize, adjust, and try again." He removes his hand from my shoulder. "That is all any of us can do, Kairos. We stumble toward understanding, making mistakes and correcting them, hoping that our consistent effort speaks louder than our inevitable failures."
I think about Cecil in the apartment, probably angry with me right now. Probably hurt that I left without explanation.
I think about Dylan, confused and protective, trying to hold everything together in my absence.
And I think about coming back. About having the conversation I've been dreading and preparing for. About opening that door and waiting to see if Cecil will walk through it.
"How much longer do I have here?" I ask.
"Four more days. Unless you feel ready sooner."
"I don't think I'll ever feel ready."
"Then four more days to become as prepared as possible." Tenebrae gestures back toward the path through the garden. "Come. There is more to discuss about managing your own fear and anxiety during difficult conversations."
I stand, brushing off my pants, and follow him deeper into the garden.
The flowers grow darker here, their petals absorbing light instead of reflecting it. The shadows deepen and lengthen.
But Tenebrae moves through them with complete confidence, and I realize that's what he's teaching me.
Not how to avoid pain.
How to walk through it without being consumed.
How to hold it with compassion instead of fear.
How to be present in the darkness without letting it swallow me whole.
"Kairos?"
I look up to find Tenebrae watching me, his expression patient.
"Yeah?"
"You asked earlier why I smiled."
"When?"
"When you said you were willing to stay away from him for a week, willing to endure your own pain, if it meant being better equipped to help him without causing harm."
I nod slowly.
"I smiled because that moment—that willingness to sacrifice your comfort for his wellbeing—is the foundation of everything else I can teach you. Without that, all the techniques and strategies in the world are useless." His blood-red eyes hold mine. "But with it, even imperfect attempts at helping become acts of love."
My throat tightens.
"I just don't want to mess this up."
"You will. Multiple times, probably."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's not meant to be reassuring. It's meant to be honest." Tenebrae's expression softens. "But messing up while trying is still better than not trying at all. And as long as you remain willing to acknowledge your mistakes and adjust, there is always the possibility of repair."
I take a deep breath, letting his words sink in.
Four more days.
Four more days of learning, preparing, understanding.
And then I go back.
Back to the apartment. Back to Dylan's justifiable anger. Back to Cecil's hurt and confusion.
Back to the most important conversation of my life.
"Okay," I say finally. "What's next?"
Tenebrae's smile returns, and this time there's something almost proud in it.
"Next, we discuss the difference between empathy and pity, and why one heals while the other harms."
We walk deeper into the garden, into the shadows and the dark blooms, and I listen.
I listen with everything I have.
Because in four days, I'm going to need every single thing he teaches me.
And I refuse to waste a single moment.
Wait for me, Cecil, I think, even though he can't hear me. I'm learning how to help you. How to be what you need.
Just wait a little longer.
I promise it'll be worth it.