Chapter 29: The Memory She'll Forget
Eva's POV
The wind moved strangely in her dreams that night.
It didn't sound like wind. Not the rustling of trees or the creak of shutters — but something quieter. Softer. Like silk dragged over bare skin. Like breath pressed against the nape of her neck. Familiar, and yet unplaceable.
She wasn't in bed anymore.
Gone were the covers, the pillow, the walls of her room.
Instead, she stood barefoot on cold marble, her nightdress fluttering in an invisible breeze. Pillars rose around her like ancient sentinels, reaching into a sky so pale it looked like morning had forgotten how to color.
There was no ceiling. No stars.
Just that overwhelming sense of stillness.
And light.
Soft, golden light filtered through nothing, warming her skin, drawing her forward without a word.
Then — a figure appeared.
No footsteps, no sound. She didn't enter. She emerged, as though the dream had been waiting for her.
She was breathtaking.
Hair the color of early sunlight cascading in waves, skin kissed by rose gold, eyes like an ocean Eva could drown in and never regret it. She wore a flowing dress that shimmered like mist, and when she moved, it wasn't walking — it was gliding.
More than beauty.
More than grace.
Divine.
Eva's breath caught.
"You," she whispered, though no name came to her lips.
Aphrodite smiled.
Not proudly. Not regally. But softly. Like someone looking at a child they had longed for and finally found.
"You always dream like this," the goddess said, voice like a lullaby folded into wind. "Quietly. Tenderly. You've always been gentle."
Eva couldn't move. Her feet were rooted to the floor. Her heart was fluttering like wings beneath her ribs.
"I—who are you?"
But she already knew.
Aphrodite stepped closer. "Once, I gave the world a daughter. And the world stole her again and again. Each time she was born, she died too early, too painfully. And though she found love, it was never enough to save her."
Her voice trembled — not with weakness, but old grief, ancient sorrow worn threadbare by time.
"My Aira," she said. "My brightest child. She never reached her ending. Until she gave up everything… and left behind you."
Eva's chest tightened.
"I don't—understand."
"You don't need to. You shouldn't have to," Aphrodite said gently. "You wanted to live. Not to remember. And I will not burden you with what was never meant to be yours."
She reached out and touched Eva's face. Her fingers were warm — impossibly warm, like the heart of a fire that did not burn.
"You carry echoes of gods and ghosts. But your soul… it's your own."
"I don't want to be anything else," Eva whispered. "I just want to stay."
"I know."
Aphrodite smiled. Then she leaned forward and kissed Eva's brow.
The warmth was unlike anything she'd known.
It poured into her, like being held, like someone whispering, I'll carry this for you, without needing to ask. Her knees weakened. Her eyes closed.
"You'll forget me," the goddess said, her voice softer than dusk. "That's my gift to you. A life untouched by prophecy. By bloodlines. By gods."
"But why?"
"Because Aira never got to live," Aphrodite said, voice breaking for the first time. "Not truly. And I won't let that happen to you."
She cradled Eva's face.
"I won't make the same mistake twice."
Eva tried to hold onto her. Tried to memorize the feel of her touch, the exact hue of her eyes. But the light was pulling everything away — erasing the details before she could etch them into memory.
Her lips parted. Her heart surged forward before her mind could catch up.
"You're so beautiful…" she breathed. "Will I marry you someday?"
Aphrodite laughed — a sound like spring rain. She touched Eva's cheek, almost motherly, almost reverent.
"That's up to you," she said. "If we meet again."
And then—
The marble faded.
The pillars melted into morning light.
And Eva slipped into sleep like a child into arms that would never let go.
—
She woke slowly.
The sunlight that filled her room felt strange — not harsh, but golden. Soft. Like the aftertaste of a dream. She blinked at the ceiling, dazed, her heartbeat heavy and slow.
She didn't remember the dream.
Not really.
Just warmth. And light.
And someone she didn't want to forget.
"Eva?"
A voice stirred her from the stillness — low, familiar, wrapped in warmth.
Her mother.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, still in her robe, her hair tied loosely back. She looked concerned, but not alarmed — like she sensed something had shifted.
Eva sat up slowly.
"Good morning," she said hoarsely.
"You slept in."
"I guess I… needed to."
Evelyn walked to the edge of the bed and sat beside her.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Eva turned her face toward her mother and asked, in a voice far too quiet:
"Do you think dreams mean anything?"
Evelyn looked at her for a long moment.
"Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes they're just dreams. But other times, I think they're the heart telling us what we can't say out loud."
Eva's fingers twisted in the bedsheets.
"I think I… saw someone. Someone I knew. Or maybe didn't."
"Was it a nightmare?"
"No." Her voice cracked. "It felt like… I was loved."
Evelyn's expression softened instantly.
She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind Eva's ear.
"Then maybe you were."
"Even if I forget her?"
"Even then."
A tear slid down Eva's cheek.
She didn't know why.
Only that something deep inside her ached in a way she couldn't explain. A part of her had been filled — and hollowed — in the same breath.
"Do you think," she whispered, "I'll ever see her again?"
Evelyn didn't ask who.
She just wrapped her arms around Eva and held her against her chest like she had when Eva was small.
"I think," she said softly, "if your heart remembers, it will find her again."
Eva closed her eyes.
And this time, when she fell asleep again later that afternoon, she dreamed of nothing.
But her heart — somewhere beneath skin and thought and time — still carried the warmth of Aphrodite's kiss.
Still remembered the voice that said: You asked to live.
Still whispered: I won't make the same mistake.
And far across the sea of memory, in a place no mortal could reach, Aphrodite stood barefoot on a cliff and watched the wind carry away the last fragment of the dream.
"She'll live," she murmured to the breeze. "She'll forget me. But she'll live."
And for once, that was enough.