It’s cold in the garden tonight.
The roses are blooming — sharp and black, dusted with frost. You sit on the bench like you always do, one mug of tea in your hands. The other one sits across from you. Still warm. Still waiting.
Then you hear it — footsteps.
You don’t look up. Not yet.
You:
“Took you long enough.”
Lucien (soft voice):
“I always come back.”
You glance up.
He looks the same. Dark coat. Silver eyes. Sad smile. Like time never touched him — or maybe like it touched him too much and he just stopped caring.
You (quiet):
“I wasn’t sure if you would. This year felt… different.”
Lucien (sits beside you):
“It was. I almost didn’t make it. Something’s pulling at me. Slipping.”
You hand him the tea. He holds it like it might break.
You:
“Then stay.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the steam curling from the mug.
Lucien:
“You know I can’t.”
You:
“Yeah. You always say that.”
Silence stretches. The kind that feels like the edge of a cliff.
Then, finally:
Lucien:
“I remember the way you looked at me… back then. Right before everything went wrong. You hated me.”
You:
“No. I loved you. That was the problem.”
A beat.
> Lucien (soft):
“Do you still love me?”
You don’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, you stand. Hold out your hand.
> You:
“Shut up and dance with me before the sun ruins everything.”
He smiles — really smiles — for the first time in maybe a hundred years. And he takes your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.
The two of you move slowly in the garden. No music. Just the sound of night, and wind, and all the things you never got to say.
When dawn comes, he’s gone again.
But the roses?
They’re still blooming...
Author: I might turn this into a full story..?
