You are like my soul,
a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
-Pablo Neruda, "I Like for You to be Still"
The Heartless take what they want. Humans, or what is left of them, must live with the aftermath.
"Do you remember your true name?" he asked. The orange-purple of the sky cast warm shades onto his dark coat like a gentle goodbye.
"Cidar," I responded after a small pause. The name felt like a falsehood in this unfamiliar place.
With a wave of his hand, the letters of my name shimmered into existence in archaic font. An X drifted down, unbidden, and its arrival caused a whirlwind of gold; when it settled, a different name hung in midair.
"Welcome back to the worlds, Draxci," he said softly.