He would close his eyes while mediating with Zenyatta under the cherry trees and see her against the blue sky, amongst the blossom petals that were raining across the plateau in the wind, mesmerised and so in home with the place.

That was a wish.

He would spend the night on the rooftop of the monastery, under the light of the full moon and see her laying beside him, looking tired but satusfied, hair a mess and sweat still drying on her brow; just like after a long-hour operation.

That was a cross between a memory and a wish.

He would stand in the heavy rain, looking up at it as it landed on his bare face and see her appearing above him bathe in golden light, stopping the rain, looking both lovely and worried and saying "I found someone!" and then whispering to him, "you'll live, hold on".

That was a memory.

He would dive in the icy winter water and see her coming from the dark bottom of the lake, hold his face with her hands, skin freezing and drag him in the darkness and the cold, like a machine's body and he would go without a fight.

That was a fantasy.

He would listen Zenyatta in the cool twilight with his back turned to him, sharing his wisdom, telling him his human soul was intact within him and listen to his master's voice becoming hers, saying the same things.

That was a cross between a fantasy and a memory.

He would stay in his room in the monastery, remembering his brother's attack, the elders' words and his own screams and feel her waking him up, telling him that everything was just a dream.

...and that was a memory and a regret.


He rose from his (unneeded) bed, his brain waking up from the trance, because when wish, fantasy and memory turned to regret, he needed to move.

As if he had still a body of flesh and blood, he felt hot, numb at his left side

(a man's heart still beats inside of me)

and bitter bile was in his throat, even though that was impossible. So, he went out of his window, he jumped on the roof and started running on the top of the monastery, jumping and landing on the trees around him and losing himself in the forest and the steep mountainside of his first true home in years. His body wouldn't let him become deaf to the outside world while his blood was pumping in his ears; exhaustion wouldn't raise a wall between him and these regrets.

("Good luck. I hope you will find what you're looking for.")

He had to run.

She might be dead.

She might be a mother, a lover.

She might be an angel for too many others.

She might be bleeding from a knife, a birth... She might be laughing, crying, blaming, devoting, loving, hating... regretting.

no

Why would she?

At that point, he'd stop. He wouldn't be tired, but he'd stop. He would turn around and take the long way back to the only one who would listen and soothe. Regret was a pill too hard and bitter to swallow when you had a synthetic throat.