The light was gold, as it always is at the edge of a cycle.

They walked together along the path that wound through the garden—a garden that had been planted long before the house was built, long before the hill had a name. The warrior’s hand rested on the woman’s hip. The woman’s fingers were laced through his. They did not speak, because speech was not needed.

The warrior knew that the end was coming. He had known it for cycles. He had felt the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders, and he had accepted it. But he had not accepted that he would have to leave her. He had not accepted that she would have to walk the next cycle alone.

The woman knew that the end was coming too. She had seen it in the way he held her, in the way his thumb traced circles on her hip, in the way he looked at her as if he were memorising her face. She did not speak of it, because she knew that to speak of it was to make it real.

They walked until they reached the edge of the garden, where the path met the cliff. Below them, the sea stretched out, dark and infinite. The sun was setting, turning the sky into shades of gold and amber and rose.

The warrior stopped. He turned to face her. He took both her hands in his.

“I will come back,” he said. “Not in this form, not in this life. But I will come back. And when I do, I will find you. I will always find you.”

The woman smiled. She had heard this before, in other cycles, in other gardens. She had always believed him.

“I will be here,” she said. “I will always be here.”

He let go of her hands. He turned to face the sea. He was still looking at the sea when the light began to fade.

The woman stood beside him. She was still standing beside him when the sun disappeared. She was still standing beside him when the stars came out, and when the warrior stepped into the darkness, she did not try to follow.

She knew that he would come back. He always came back.

S.E.K and A.P.K.