Slowly, they grow. Not the way they should have, not straight and true, but somehow in a general upwards direction. Jellal's spine twists a little to the right from hours of hunching over rock, making him shorter than he should be. The notch in his back hurts when he tries to sleep on it.

It's not easy, they whisper in the dark to each other, hands clasped, heads bent. Not in prayer. Just exhaustion.

Why pray when you've already made it to heaven?

It's not easy, but it's not forever either, Jellal would tell them every day. Just one more month. Two at the most. We'll be out of here in no time, trust me and then—oh, boy. Just wait, you guys. It'll be the five of us in the outside where they keep the stars and the wind and the strawberry cake.

I promise you, it'll be the realest and truest of things. It'll be the opposite of heaven.

Two months become three months become three years. Half a lifetime, for someone Melly's age—practically forever.

But Erza still hopes, even if Jellal has stopped preaching about the outside. Erza still dreams of stars and wind and strawberry cake. When Jellal seems to darken and smudge a little around the edges, or starts to chip like stone, she still presses her face to the crack in the wall and tries to imagine sunlight.

"Do you even know what cake tastes like?" she asks him one night, as he's blinking the dust out his eyes. "They never served any at my orphanage. Did they at yours?"

"Nah," he says with a sleepy grin. "But I had a strawberry once — this huge, shiny red one, and it was awesome, Erza. They're so good. And honestly? They kinda remind me of you."

"Oh." She blinks at him. "Compliment?"

"Duh," he says. "Anyways, the truth is I don't really know much about the outside world anymore. It's been…too long. But I know it made you, so—"

"It can't be all bad if something good can come out of it," she says softly.

He nods as the light dwindles away, until only his bright green eyes show.

"Exactly." Yawn. "And I just want you to have all the good things."

Erza shakes her head, sighing. "You dinghead." She curls up next to him, arm against the slight curve of his spine, with her back resting against Melly's stomach, who's nestled against Wally, next to Simon, fingers brushing Grandpa Rob's wrist. A little human knot. It's warm, and Grandpa's snores are more like deep hums—rhythmic and somehow soothing.

"What makes you think that all the good things aren't right here?"