Marluxia does not remember.
Nobodies remember everything that they were so that they can know all that they are now not. Or so he had been told. He retains enough of his memories to understand that his humanity has been uprooted. If he is a garden, then his soil is too acidic for such a thing. Marluxia is left with foliage too thick with leaves to see through to their stalks. Left with plants too withered and unrecognizable to feel pity for.
He is left with petals stolen too soon by the wind.
In his earliest days, Marluxia tried to make out the shape of those petals. Tried to put a name to that tangerine blur. It felt important to know. Necessary. Then time saw to it that his longing was deracinated too. He did not just think he would never remember: he forgot that it was ever important to try.
Until now.
A keyblade leaves no wounds visible to the naked eye: it cuts only the essence of things. Darkness seeps from the places Sora and Mickey's keyblades have scored him. For the first time since he became no one, Marluxia feels like he can breathe.
His scythe returns to its truest form. It rises as cerise petals into the sky. The slanting sunlight turns each one the same hue as her hair.
Marluxia remembers.