She said it softly, like a secret already too late to keep: Memento Mori, and the room seemed to dim around us, as if the walls themselves had heard it before

Her fingers closed around mine, not warm, not cold, just certain, like the grip of something inevitable.

Memento vivre: She added, almost smiling, and I wondered if she meant it as comfort or a dare I had already failed

Outside, something moved; wind, or time, or both, dragging its long shadow across the floor between us.

I thought of all the days I’d buried alive, the hours spent pretending I was not dissolving.

She stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the quiet ending in her breath.
Live, she whispered, like a warning, not a promise, and for a moment, I almost understood how to begin.

She’s the constant, The connection, The Guide