She waits for him at the place, their special place. Their tree, at the edge of the woods that border the southern edge of the palace. Their tree, whose flowers are in full bloom, fragrant in the warm night air. Above her, the moon is full and radiant. She can feel the power from it coursing through her veins, lending her its strength. It reminds her of home, of the moonlight reflecting off the snow. A place she used to call home, but no longer.
She waits for him. She envisions his pale skin, his dark, unruly hair, his scar—the sign of his courage and bravery. She imagines his full lips, curled up in a smile, that special smile he reserves just for her. She feels his arms around her, his strong body flush against her own, keeping her safe and warm. She feels his breath blow across her ear, his cheek against hers, warm and excited.
She waits for him, her face turned up toward the moon. A light breeze rustles the leaves, caresses her hair. A single tear courses down her cheek as her lips whisper his name like a prayer.
"Zuko…"
She waits for him at this place every year on this day, but he will not come. It has been eight years since Azula took him from her. Eight years to the day when he threw himself in front of her to protect her—and their unborn son—from Azula's blue flames. Eight years to the day she threw ice daggers at her, ending Azula for good. Eight years to the day he died in her arms, one hand caressing her face, the other hand around her rotund belly that held their son. Eight years to the day when he left her alone.
She waits, watches their son grow strong and beautiful. He is only eight, but already as handsome as his father. She waits for the day when their son is fully grown and ready to lead the Fire Nation. She waits for the day when their son will be old enough to take the throne as the Fire Lord. She waits for the day when her son will no longer need her.
She waits. She waits for the day when at long last she can finally join him in death.