It arrived wrapped in silver thread.
No enchantments. No traps. Just parchment, folded by trembling hands and carried across couriers who didn't know the weight it held.
Caelum found it on his desk—no name, but he knew the handwriting.
Elena Varis.
The one who had once stood beside him before applause turned to knives. The one who watched him vanish and whispered hope into ruins.
He unfolded the letter.
"You were always more than fire.""Even when your hands bled ambition. Even when you stopped speaking kindly. I remember the way you used to look at injustice—not as something to destroy, but something to transform.""I don't want you back. I want you whole. I don't believe in redemption the way poets do. But I believe in you."
"If you read this... please remember who you were before the world made you myth."
Caelum stared at the words.
No strategy.
No ideology.
Just ache.
The devil whispered from the corner of the room—soft, curious.
"And what will you do with love that doesn't ask for power?"
Caelum didn't answer.
He folded the letter.
Placed it on the windowsill.
Watched the city breathe.
And for the first time in years, he whispered to no one:
"I want to remember."