Bleach is neither my creation nor my property.
It's been five years.
A little more than ten years since he first saw her, since he painstakingly and tirelessly wooed her into his arms. She had taken hold of his heart with soft, cold fingers, and he had warmed them for her even as she gentled him.
When she lay shivering under the onslaught of the fever, all her memories sprawled bluntly under the spring sky, he held her with arms too small to hold in her pain.
For him, the dream never stopped.
When she lay breathless, like wax, her soul reborn to wander the human world without even a scrap of memory of him, both of them lay perpetually chilled: she, in death; he, in grief that he still cannot show.
Sometimes, he wakes in the night and automatically seeks for her pale and fragile form at his side, before he remembers:
He cannot warm her now.
