The afternoon sun filtered through delicate leaves, casting dappled shadows on the stone path that curved through the hilltop gardens. A breeze rustled the flowers, whispering soft secrets into the air. Jin walked slowly beside her—Rury. Her golden hair shimmered in the light like threads of sunlight, and her soft laughter felt like something he'd once lost, returning through the wind.
Rury was nothing like the gods, warriors, or twisted shadows of Jin's past. She was quiet but curious, kind but clever, always eager to learn but never to assume. Her glasses perched slightly askew when she leaned over an old parchment or when she lifted her tea cup, and she always made a thoughtful hum before responding. She was… human. And she reminded him, painfully, of something he could never forget.
"It's strange," Rury said as they walked beside the koi pond in the garden. "You talk about gods and mythologies like they're not just symbols… but memories."
Jin smiled softly, his hands tucked behind him. "Because for some, myths are memories. Stories aren't always invented—they're sometimes… inherited."
Rury turned to him, golden eyes blinking beneath the glass. "That's such a beautiful idea. That stories remember what we can't."
Jin nodded, silently. His heart clenched. She didn't know how close to the truth she was.
They spent many afternoons like this. Rury had invited him into her quiet little world—a world of books, old art galleries, crumbling libraries, and quiet cafés where time seemed to slow down. She asked questions like a scholar and listened like a friend. She even brought her own notes when Jin mentioned ancient symbols or forgotten gods, eager to understand the metaphors he unearthed.
One rainy day, they took shelter in a quiet museum nestled beneath a shrine. As the rain pattered gently outside, they stood before a mosaic—fragments of color depicting a figure handing an apple to a towering, horned beast.
"It's titled The Offering of Insight," Rury whispered.
Jin narrowed his eyes. The symbolism was familiar.
"An innocent soul giving knowledge—an apple—to a demon," he murmured. "But the demon isn't devouring it. It's… cradling it. With reverence."
"You see what no one else does," she said, smiling up at him. "Most people just see a beast. You see meaning."
Jin turned to her. Her voice, her gentle smile—it scratched at a memory buried too deep.
"I've… met someone like you before," he said softly.
"Oh?" Rury tilted her head. "A mythologist?"
Jin chuckled. "No. Someone who used to find beauty in symbols and chaos in silence. She was… someone I lost."
There was a pause. The air felt heavy. Rury didn't press. She just offered him her quiet companionship as they walked into the next hall.
Their bond grew slowly. Jin found himself relaxing, smiling more. He even laughed—genuinely. They shared tea under the sakura trees that bloomed near the lake. He taught her ancient scripts, she taught him to cook something terribly spicy. They debated whether fate was rigid or fluid, and argued good-naturedly over whether gods deserved worship or challenge.
One night, they sat under the stars, their picnic nearly finished. Rury poured the last of the jasmine tea into his cup.
"You've been smiling more lately," she said softly. "Less weight in your eyes."
Jin glanced at her. "It's your fault."
"Oh? Is that bad?" she teased.
"No," Jin said, voice lowering. "It's… comforting. Dangerous, but comforting."
"Dangerous?"
"Because when you feel peace, you fear losing it."
Rury looked away then, cheeks touched with pink. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm not going anywhere."
He looked at her profile—her hair loose in the wind, those eyes like molten gold. Something inside him screamed to say it. To ask. To remember. But he said nothing.
Not yet.
A few days later, something strange happened.
They were walking home after dinner at a local festival. Lanterns bobbed overhead, casting golden hues on the ground.
Jin said, "The festival is really awesome."
"So you like festival." She smiled.
Suddenly a child ran into the road, chasing a fallen balloon.
Jin didn't think—he simply moved. His power flared in an instant, time slowing around him. The truck halted mere inches from the child, redirected gently away as if repelled by an invisible hand.
Rury stood frozen, stunned. Her eyes widened—not at the event, but at him.
Jin turned to reassure her, but her expression had changed. In the window glass beside her, her reflection—no longer hid behind glasses or tied hair—stared back.
And it was her.
Velka.
"It can't be possible. Why are you here?" She already placed her hand on her mouth with shock.
For one breathless second, Jin's heart stopped.
But the image flickered and vanished. Rury looked away quickly, and ran.
"Rury___please stop. There is something I need to ask." Jin shouted.
But it was too late she already vanished into the crowd.
That night, Jin didn't sleep.
He wandered to the garden alone. His hands trembled slightly, the weight of memory crashing upon him. That face. That presence. That ache in his chest.
Was it possible?
Was she…?
"This can't be coincidence."
No. He couldn't jump to that hope.
But deep down, he already knew.