She was gone forever. She is gone forever.

The body lying cold and hard and unmoving on the bed is not her.

He lost her. But now she is free, now she is not suffering.

But he is. He is suffering and he feels so broken, so bereft, so empty.

She is forever gone. Forever an imprint. She will always haunt him.

He had watched her fight the fever for a long time.

Watched her conquer the bout the first time. Watched her suffer it again the second time. She was never the same after the Scarlet Fever first kissed her.

But he had hoped, he had always hoped, that she will come back to him.

Yet here they are, in a scene he so forcefully banished in his head for a million times. With her broken and free and lifeless, and him shattered and haunted and healthy. He spoke her name like a mantra, shouting and whispering, crying and cursing, and moved from the bed. She is gone and he is still there. He will never be the same. But tomorrow he will wake up; tomorrow, he will prepare her wake and he will have to appear strong and calm to everyone. Never mind that he feels dead inside. Never mind that he is empty. Tomorrow, he will have to let go.

And no matter how long he has envisioned this scene with multiple alternative endings, he was left knocked-out.

She is gone.