Swiftcurrent Creek August slipped away into a moment in time.

“Loved,” he murmured—a snort derisively biting the cool air before him. Was he loved? Eshe loved him—Viinturuth. Arric, though the man’s cool frustration was apparent in the very lashing of the creek wind.

“Right,” he offered tiredly, the disbelief evident in his tone and yet unable to truly argue with the melodic voice in his head.

Still, his eyes pried open if only for a brief moment—wondering, if perhaps, someone was actually messing with him—the voice becoming all the more clear, it felt.

And there she was—happy—effervescent as she had been in life.

‘Don’t be sad,’ she murmured, and his face fell—his heart throbbed. “How can I not be when you left me?”