'Promise'.

Dear, honorable father:

I had a dream of mother last night.

At first, she was happy to see me. And I was glad she did, then she started crying and took my hand, guided me places she knew I loved. It felt real.

Mother is beautiful, father! I always wondered why there were no photographs around, but then I remember the fire.

She had long, ebony black hair, her eyes a beautiful shade of dark blue and were compassionate and full of loving. She was tall and her skin was fair–she was gorgeous–, and she moved with grace and carefully. Her voice was soft and melodious, and she looked sad when we talked.

She told me about you, dad.

She's sorry that she left us behind–that she never wanted to leave–, but fate had decided it was her time. She hopes you know I have your smile, and that my eyes are a spitting image of yours.

She misses us. I remember crying. She took me between her arms and told me with reminiscence how you met. She says you were loud, and careless, but that there was something about you that caught her attention: your confidence. She can't forget how you looked at her, remembers she felt slightly intimidated but she knew that you were a nice person. She's glad she wasn't wrong about you.

She… she hopes you can move on. Said she would be happy if you started dating–"his happiness is important to me", or something like that–. I know deep in my soul we would never forget about her, even if you married again. I know, you'll never forget about her, and always care for her, no matter she's gone.

I told her your secret, dad. I told her of the time you confessed to me that you could never love another woman –"I made a promise to your mother, I'll love her even after I'm dead. I still love her"–, she was surprised. She looked… happy.

She hoped you're being careful since she can't be around to look after you now. And, no. I didn't tell her of that one time you sprained yourself real bad training. Or that time you fell from the roof. She trusts you, really.

She said she loves blue flowers because they remind her of you.

She played with my hair, gave me little advices so it'll grow healthy and taught me how to make this really specific kind of braid. We looked really alike, y'know. If it wasn't for the teal hair. At least now I know where I got the ears.

She told me to look after you. Reminded me you'll always be there to protect those around you, and that I really should tell you when to quit.

She'd love to be with us, she misses you. How you held her, and how you shouted from the rooftops–saying you would surpass God–. She would never change anything, about you, even if she had the chance.

I really reminded her of you. Well, a nicer and quiet version of you, that is. Called me your "little clone".

She apologized because it was a torture for her to miss watching me grow. I know it wasn't her fault, dad. I would never live with myself knowing I blamed her for something she couldn't control, something she never did. She was blissful when I was born, she told me. And she laughed when she told me that you passed out when you saw me.

I remember we were going to visit her soon, leave some flowers on her grave. I know plans changed, dad.

She laughed as she told me that you'd forget the day, and though you'd probably fall down the stairs (I swear I never said a thing) in a rush to buy a camelia. She appreciates that you do, and knows you love the flowers.

She was happy to see me. Happy that we were able to talk, about everything, about you. She was beaming knowing you kept her close to your heart. Laughed because she remembered that you were (still are?) mad at Death the Kidd, was happy about Crona opening opening up to the world, happy for Soul, proud of Maka, and glad that Liz and Patty were happy.

It took her a while to let go when we said our goodbyes. I didn't want her to leave, I really didn't. I watched her eyes filling with tears, and how she shakes when she finally let me go…

I stopped myself from running towards her, embrace her, tell her I needed her and wanted her to stay for as long as she could–forever, even–, tel her… Tell her I love her.

Nonetheless, we waved goodbye. Whispering she would come again soon.

Father I–I couldn't tell her. Tell her to forgive me, for keeping to myself you were gone, too. I'm glad you don't have to break your promise.

One last thing, honorable father: Mother says she loves you.

Fin

I don't own Soul Eater.

C. C. Cr0ss.

[Edit––May 17, 2015. The day I'm no longer a dancing queen.]