Standard disclaimers apply.
Martin's heart is always heavy in the daylight. Walking alone under the blue sky and dew-kissed treetops, Rose's absence is a hole in his chest. The sun rises and falls, but the pain never fades. It never gets easier. Brome blames himself, his mother and father blame Badrang, but—
—it hangs heavy on him, round his throat like a noose.
Sometimes he dreams. And when he does, it's never the same, except for the end—when he loses her. He wishes he couldn't remember them upon waking, but he does. Always. Maybe he saw Rose disappear into the sea; perhaps he caught a glimpse of her in the trees and darted after her, but lost her in the twilight. Perchance to dream, the world seems to say as it yawns awake while he, never at peace, trudges on through the woods.
The season before happening upon Mossflower, just before dawn, he thinks he hears her voice. Calling to him. No. She's singing. The sun comes up and he stumbles toward her, blinded by his grief, by the weight of her memory, and when he trips into a small, secluded clearing lined with wild roses, the world goes eerily quiet. Not even a bird sings.
He will go on, as far as he needs to. There's nowhere left to go but forward. He tells himself this as he passes through the clearing, but can't bring himself to look at the roses.