Today was like any other day. I sat on my bed, knees pulled up to my chest, staring blankly at the far wall. My mind, once sharp and vibrant, had been reduced to a single, suffocating loop: I failed her. The thought repeated endlessly, as steady and monotonous as a heartbeat.

  Miquella. I could see her face in every quiet moment. Her smile, her laughter—it all felt so close, yet impossibly out of reach. I had failed to protect her. Again. I replayed the moment over and over, dissecting every second, every movement, every decision. How could I have been so blind? So weak? So useless? Repetitive, isn’t it? Yes. I couldn’t think of anything else.

  The door creaked open softly, snapping me out of the echo chamber of my thoughts. My mother stepped in. She didn’t knock, and I didn’t look at her. I didn’t have to. I could feel her presence, warm but heavy with unspoken concern. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, her shadow stretching across the floor like a quiet reminder of reality.

  Finally, she moved closer, her steps careful but deliberate, and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” she asked gently.

  I said nothing. The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but they refused to come out. How could I tell her what was inside me? How could I explain the weight of my failure when I didn’t even fully understand it myself? When the silence stretched too long, she sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of frustration, but one of understanding. She rested her hand on my shoulder, her touch firm and grounding.

  “You know,” she began, her voice calm and steady, “life doesn’t stop for us. It doesn’t wait.”

  I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She wasn’t looking at me but at the wall, her expression distant yet thoughtful. “When we lose someone, when we fail, when the world knocks us down so hard that we feel like we’ll never get back up... the world doesn’t pause for us to catch our breath. Time doesn’t wait for us to figure it all out. It just... moves forward.”

  I wanted to argue, to tell her that she didn’t understand, but the words still wouldn’t come.

  “Do you know what that means?” she asked, turning to face me.

  I shook my head slowly.

  “It means that we have to move with it. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost we feel, we have to keep going. Because life is only one. It’s fragile, fleeting, and once it’s gone, it’s gone.” Her words settled over me like a heavy blanket, both comforting and suffocating.

  “Miquella wouldn’t want you to stop living because of her,” she continued, her voice softening. “She wouldn’t want you to give up on yourself. And she certainly wouldn’t want you to think you’re useless. You’re not.”

  “But I couldn’t save her,” I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. My voice cracked under the weight of the confession. “I tried, but I couldn’t... I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “What you? -- No one is strong enough to stop life from happening,” she said, her tone firm yet kind. “Sometimes, no matter how hard we fight, we lose. That’s the truth of living. But that doesn’t mean you’re weak. It doesn’t mean you’re useless.”

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  Her words cut through me like a blade, sharp yet strangely healing. “Do you know what strength really is?” she asked. “It’s not about never failing or never losing. It’s about how you choose to stand back up afterward. It’s about taking the pain, the loss, the failure, and letting it shape you into someone better, someone stronger.”

  I stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in.

  “It’s okay to grieve,” she said. “It’s okay to feel broken. But don’t let it consume you. Don’t let it stop you from living the life you still have. Because that’s the only way you’ll ever honor the people you’ve lost.”

  She stood up then, her hand lingering on my shoulder for a moment before she let go. “I’ll leave you to think about it,” she said quietly. “But remember this: You have a choice. You can let this defeat you, or you can let it make you stronger. The choice is yours.”

  And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the dim light of my room.

  I thought a lot after she left.

  How dumbass am I?

  I kept preparing for the things that would happen this year, sharpening my skills, gathering knowledge, doing everything I could to stand against the tide of fate. And yet, at the first loss, I surrendered? Just threw myself into bed and let the world pass me by?

  No way.

  Miquella... I failed to protect her, not just in this life but in the last one too. But back then, I wasn’t like this. I wasn’t consumed by despair. I was hopeful—hopeful that someday, I’d find her again. And you know what? I did.

  Someday, I will again.

  But for now, there’s Maren.

  In some time, she would fall ill, the kind of illness that would creep in silently, and before anyone realized the seriousness, it would take her life. I’d seen it before. And this time, I wasn’t going to let it happen.

  I’d already started preparing. Months ago, I had carefully made her drink a series of herbal infusions I had learned about from one of her own books. When she asked why, I told her I was practicing potion-making. She chuckled at me, amused at my efforts, but she drank them anyway.

  The infusions were more than just practice. The herbs I used were known for their properties, strengthening the body’s immune defenses, making her resistant to most illnesses. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was a start.

  I felt good about that. Like I was finally doing something right.

  But that wasn’t enough. I had to go further.

  I decided to purify her home—an extra layer of protection. To her, it would seem like nothing more than one of my eccentric experiments, but to me, it was a calculated act to safeguard her life.

  I planned it carefully. One day, I asked her to head to the market to pick up a list of things I conveniently “needed” for my studies. She agreed, unaware of my real intentions.

  As soon as she left, I got to work.

  I started by using fire magic to raise the temperature in her home, just enough to kill any lingering germs. It was a controlled burn—not real flames, just heat, steady and precise. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it did the job.

  Then, I began chanting an incantation of blessing I had spent weeks memorizing. The words flowed from my lips like a melody, ancient and powerful. The blessing would cleanse the house of any minor malicious entities or lingering negative energies. It was meticulous work, weaving magic through every corner of the home, ensuring nothing was left untouched.

  When that was done, I offered to fetch her the herbs she normally gathered from the forest. I knew she loved her walks, but the risk was too great. If she picked up anything dangerous, it could undo everything I’d worked for. So I insisted, framing it as another “practice exercise” of mine. She didn’t argue—she never did.

  For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was moving forward. Like I was doing something meaningful. I couldn’t save Miquella, not this time, but Maren?

  I would protect her.

  No matter what it took.