samaqi* I grew up in a country where textbooks were filled with French literature. My native tongue's literature had also been heavily influenced by the French language—its expressiveness, rhythm, and emotional depth. I learned French partly because I wanted to read the literature I loved, for I often found the translations into my native language lacking in subtlety. Reading in French can be challenging at first because the sentences are usually long, and you have to pay close attention to avoid getting lost in the flow of complex emotions.*

One of my favorite French authors is Guy de Maupassant. During and after Monkey's death, I revisited some of his short stories that explore life and death, including Une Vie and La Morte. My perspective on life has changed as I've become an adult, watching my parents age while my child grows.

So here you go—a chapter quite different from my usual simple style. I borrow many elements from La Morte, some of which are direct translations, while others include intentional modifications. I hope you enjoy it.

I love her madly. Why? Is it weird to love someone even though you can't see the world the way they do? You can't make sense of what they think, our hearts don't beat to the same rhythm, and their lips can only say a few words, one of which is your name. And her name? It resonates in my head nonstop, like water flowing from a spring, touching the depths of my soul, rising to my lips where I call out over and over again until my breath weakens and I can only murmur it, still nonstop, everywhere, like a prayer—even though I'm the one the world often prays to…

I won't tell you our story, for love only has one. All the same. We met and fell in love. That's all. Her embrace in my arms, and soon I'm in hers, and soon later as we grow we hold each other tightly. We were inseparable for decades.

And now she's gone. How? I don't know. I don't know anymore.

One afternoon, she returned home soaked from the rain. She coughed for a few hours before I called the doctor. Advanced cancer.

How could this happen? She had been so well, facing battles after battles fearlessly. A tiny crystal burst was all it took—that's all they said. It was all so sudden.

I could never forget the inexplicable pain of witnessing her glorious life for the last time. My angel, my sweetheart, my heroine… She lay there, her heavy breaths mingling with the pink liquid filling her catheter. The sedative, as I was told, was followed by the white medication that stopped her heart instantly. The doctor nodded as she removed the syringe labeled neatly "Angelo," signaling that the procedure was complete. Just like that. Tears streamed down my face effortlessly as I leaned close to Angelo, feeling her last warmth.

Then her back leg kicked me.

What? Did I imagine it?

I stood up, wiped my tears, and looked closely at her legs again. Her eyes remained wide open, fixed on me.

"Squall," I grabbed his arm and whispered to my Knight.

He looked confused, but I didn't want to explain, just pointing to Angelo.

There! She kicked me again.

"Did you see that?" I asked.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Doctor!" I grabbed the doctor by her blouse. "She's alive!"

I didn't know what I expected when I told the doctor that. Should I feel happy or angry? Really, should I be happy or angree? What would the doctor do if Angelo were still alive? Give her another dose of death? Or would she be thorough enough to perform another full 3D scan and magically declare that Angelo was cancer-free and could go home?

"I'm very sorry, but she's gone," the doctor said, her expression somber.

"She kicked me, twice!" I insisted.

The doctor grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. "I'm sorry, Sorceress Rinoa. It was just a reflex. It happens. I could perform another procedure, but I'm sure she's gone… peacefully."

The doctor returned to Angelo and listened with her stethoscope, nodding at me in confirmation.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. I'll leave you here with her for a while longer. Just let us know when you're ready, okay?"

Squall opened the door for the doctor to leave the room. I held Angelo again, grappling with the loss after a brief moment of false hope.

I reflected on our childhood… our sensations… our words… our emotions.

Time will not wait, no matter how hard we hold on. It escapes us, and…

… I will chase it and take it back.

Because I don't want to be an Angel if you are no longer my Guardian.

— Rinoa Heartilly-Leonhart