Chapter Text
The Left Shoe – Epilogue
First Month.
It was full of challenges when Ratio took Aventurine home during the first month.
Because Ratio had never lived with so much unpredictability… until now.
He had never taken care of a patient before, especially not someone like Aventurine.
The injuries from his final mission left Aventurine with severe head trauma, later diagnosed as post-traumatic encephalopathy. It wasn’t age-related dementia, but it shared many of its symptoms: disrupted memory, delayed speech, disorientation, and long, eerie silences.
There were many moments where it felt like Aventurine’s mind had wandered too far to return.
During those times, Ratio would gently cup his cheek and whisper, “Where did you go? Please don’t wander too far from me…”
Aventurine no longer spoke in full sentences. At best, there were faint syllables. Garbled sounds that mimicked his old cadence, or soft murmurs like echoes underwater.
“That one time you called my name… I wish I could hear it again, Kakavasha. Will you say it like you used to one day?”
Physically, Aventurine could sit upright with help and occasionally walk with support. But his limbs often moved like they were underwater—slow, trembling, hesitant. His once-deft fingers—the ones that flipped his token chip like magic—could now only curl weakly around fabric, or grasp Ratio’s sleeve when frightened.
“I regret not giving you a ring back then…”
Ratio pressed a kiss to his ring finger, careful, reverent.
“To claim you as mine…”
But the most profound change of all… was the silence.
Aventurine used to fill every space. With laughter, arrogance, commentary—constant noise, like the click clack of his heels.
Now the apartment felt like a library sealed in snow.
No obnoxious laughter. No teasing.
Only breathing. The slow rise and fall of it.
Sometimes, Ratio placed a hand on Aventurine’s chest just to feel it.
Proof of life.
“I miss the way you talked in your gambling metaphors. You were always the chatterbox… like a real peacock.” Ratio’s voice cracked into a soft chuckle. “I didn’t know I’d miss it this much.”
The silence that followed was soft, but not cold. Ratio sat beside Aventurine’s chair, fingers idly brushing dust from a familiar accessory resting on his lap—Aventurine’s pink-tinted shades, lenses polished to near perfection despite never being worn these days. But one faint, rust-colored stain still clung to the inner edge of the frame.
Blood.
No matter how often Ratio cleaned them, it wouldn’t fade.
It wasn’t just residue. It was proof. A scar left behind not just on Aventurine’s body, but on Ratio’s conscience. A reminder that he hadn’t been there—that the last time Aventurine went into danger, he’d gone alone. Heartbroken. Unprotected.
Before, Ratio had always been his shield. His anchor. The steady hand pulling him back from recklessness.
Aventurine’s reason to return home safely.
Now, this was all that was left. A broken pair of sunglasses—and the bloodstain that whispered: you weren’t there when he needed you most.
Ratio’s eyes then glanced towards the signature hat, hung carefully on a hook near the mirror. Some mornings, Ratio would run a soft-bristle brush over its feathered band, smoothing each strand like preparing a crown.
He did it quietly, reverently. As if one day Aventurine would rise, tilt the hat just so, and glance over his shoulder with a smile full of color again.
Ratio’s gaze drifted back to his partner.
Aventurine had always been particular about his appearance. Peacock feathers, sharp tailoring, accessories matched down to the heel.
It wasn’t vanity—it was ritual. Performance. Armor. A gambler’s costume worn with cocky grace, designed to disarm opponents and dazzle the room.
But Ratio had seen through it.
Beneath the silk and smirks was the boy still shackled by memory, frightened and furious in equal measure. The one who used elegance as a smoke screen, because if the world saw him shine, maybe it wouldn’t notice how much of him was still trying to claw free.
So Ratio kept the ritual alive. Waiting for the moment Aventurine would come back to claim the table and make the world his stage again.
He took care in how he washed Aventurine’s hair, how he gently clipped his nails, how he folded soft robes in colors Aventurine once favored—dark green, not the sterile greys the hospital used. He tried to imagine what dignity looked like to someone who used to sparkle and kept it alive as best he could.
Eventhough Aventurine was a pale ghost of the man he used to be.
Some days, Aventurine cried when the bathwater was too hot, or flinched when the lights were too bright. Certain textures agitated him. Certain sounds made him recoil. Some evenings, his body refused food, even when Ratio coaxed him with the softest voice he could muster.
“You have no idea how many charts I’ve created of your daily routines,” Ratio murmured once, casting a weary glance toward his color-coded whiteboard and paper-covered walls.
The apartment had transformed into a care unit. Ratio rarely left—only for emergencies, and even then, he hesitated at the door like it was a battlefield. Groceries were ordered online now, though the substitutions often irritated him.
Wrong tea, wrong brand, wrong texture—he wanted specific items for Aventurine’s comfort, not close-enough guesses. But he’d take the headache over risking absence. He hadn’t forgiven himself for the last time he wasn’t there. He wasn’t making that mistake again.
He taught his students online. Attended meetings through video calls. Delegated his research to trusted colleagues. His world had narrowed, focused entirely on Aventurine—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
But he was overwhelmed. Tired. Despite learning and adjusting, Ratio still felt like he was doing more harm than good. And the guilt of hurting the man he loved—even accidentally—was too much to bear.
One evening, when Aventurine wept softly over a meal he refused to swallow, Ratio could only bow his head and whisper:
“I’m sorry… I’ll do better.”
He brought Aventurine’s hand to his lips, voice trembling.
“I’ll fix this.”
A week later, a nurse arrived.
“Nice to meet you. My name is Magdalene.”
She came once a week. A woman with tired eyes and calloused hands, Magdalene brought warmth in her practical way—rearranging cushions, checking Aventurine’s reflexes, teaching Ratio how to carry his weight without stressing the spine. She spoke like someone who had seen too much but still chose to care. Not unkind, just blunt in a way that made even Ratio listen.
“Most people burn out after three days. You? You’re on day twenty-three and still color-coding charts,” she said while fluffing Aventurine’s pillow. “You don’t need fixing, sweetheart. You just need a nap and a few fewer guilt complexes.”
Ratio blinked at her, caught off guard by the gentleness behind her dry tone.
“You love him. That’s clear as daylight. Everything else, we’ll adjust as we go. Just breathe.”
She also began cooking for Ratio, unasked.
Soft porridge with ginger and a dash of sesame oil. Clear broths with finely chopped root vegetables. Warm barley tea in Ratio’s least chipped mug. Everything portioned neatly on a tray beside his research files, like it belonged there.
Ratio was initially reluctant to let her into the kitchen. He stood stiffly at the threshold, arms crossed, gaze flicking toward the spice rack and utensils like a sentry guarding sacred ground. His fingers twitched, as if itching to intervene—shift the pan back one inch, return the spoon to its designated hook.
But he didn’t move. He was too tired.
His routines were precise. His space, catalogued. He didn’t like people touching his things—he barely tolerated his own assistants doing so, and they had credentials. But his body felt like it had been running on static, and the thought of another skipped meal made his stomach twist.
“If you fall sick, who’ll take care of the two of you?” Magdalene mumbled the first time she did it. She didn’t look up as she chopped ginger with expert rhythm. “You’re no good to anyone on an empty stomach and four hours of sleep.”
She must’ve noticed the way he hovered.
“I’ve had patients like you before,” she said, gently. “I know this kitchen has a system. I’ll put everything back where it belongs. Promise.”
Ratio’s lips parted, a protest halfway formed. But it never left his throat.
He just nodded once, slowly, and took a step back.
She gave him a quick glance—too quick for comfort.
“You’ve lost weight. Hair’s growing out. And those shadows under your eyes? Not like the Professor I saw from the news, sweetheart. Just sad.”
“…you know who I am?”
“Who doesn’t know the great Professor Veritas Ratio and his unparalleled intelligence? There are at least 8 documentaries showing on the tele about your achievements and research results. A few of my patients were your own students after you threw your books or chalks at them yet they all have nothing but admiration to you.”
Ratio opened his mouth—paused—then scoffed softly at himself.
“As I was saying,” Magdalene continued, fluffing Aventurine’s blanket with one hand and pointing the soup spoon at Ratio with the other, “you’ll be the world’s most brilliant cautionary tale if you don’t start eating and sleeping like a person.”
She met his eyes, firm but not unkind.
“You’ve got a genius brain, Professor. Don’t starve it out of love. That’s not very clever of you, is it?”
Ratio didn’t answer at first. He just hovered there, eyes lowered, lips pressed in thought.
Then—half-defensive, half-exhausted—he shifted his weight and muttered, “I’ve been tracking how he reacts to things. Sounds, textures, temperatures. Just small things. If I can build a routine… maybe I can help him feel safe again. Maybe something in him will remember.”
Magdalene arched a brow.
“So you’re doing brain science on your boyfriend with four hours of sleep and one cup of coffee?”
She plunked a bowl of porridge in front of him.
“Eat.”
Ratio blinked at it. Then at her. Then back at the spoon, like it had betrayed him by existing.
“I’m more effective when my cortex is functioning at full capacity,” he mumbled weakly.
“And I prefer caregivers who don’t faint in the shower,” Magdalene said, already slicing tofu for the next meal. “Guess we’ll both have to settle.”
Ratio finally sat. He took a slow, reluctant bite.
It tasted… warm. Nourishing. Like something he didn’t realize he needed until it touched his tongue.
======
One afternoon, Ratio finally voiced the question he’d been dreading:
“Will… will he get any better?”
Magdalene read over Aventurine’s chart, flipping through the attached notes.
“Yes and no,” she said. “This isn’t age-related deterioration. His scans show damage from trauma. Cognitive injury. The kind that comes after a long coma, or prolonged neural stress.”
She adjusted the velcro strap on Aventurine’s wrist brace, the sound tearing through the silence like a quiet storm.
“Can you elaborate further?” Ratio asked, careful not to sound too desperate.
“It means he’s not getting worse,” she replied, simply. “But he’s not getting better either. He’s… plateaued.”
“Plateaued.”
Ratio didn’t believe it—yet.
But he wanted to.
Magdalene paused, then added quietly, as she adjusted the soft wrist brace on Aventurine’s arm, “Talk to him, Professor. Even if he doesn’t answer. Especially then.”
Ratio glanced up, eyes wary.
“He can hear you,” she said. “Might not always process it the way you hope, but the warmth of your voice? Your touch? It registers. More than you think.”
Ratio looked down at Aventurine’s hand curled loosely in his. The way it twitched sometimes, reaching for his sleeve. The faint whimpers when he was in discomfort.
“He used to call me Veritas,” Ratio murmured. “Now I’m lucky if I get a blink.”
“Then talk like he did blink,” Magdalene said, not unkindly. “Don’t wait for a response to prove he’s still with you. Just let him know you’re there. That hasn’t changed.”
Ratio hesitated, jaw tightening as if fighting something back. Then his voice dropped to a whisper.
“I found something on his iPad,” Ratio said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before the mission. He’d bookmarked a bunch of articles. About loving someone who’s asexual. Autistic. He was researching… me.”
He gave a small, broken laugh.
“I didn’t even know he—he cared that much. That he was thinking about it. About me.”
Magdalene paused, her hands stilling on the tray.
“He tried to talk to me. More than once. Thrice, I think. He sat me down and tried to explain how he felt. But I thought… I thought we were fine. That I just needed to update my to-do list around him—compliment his clothes, hug more, hold his hand often. He smiled so much, I didn’t realize he was… bleeding under it…”
His fingers tapped against his knee.
“He did all that research—for me. Not because I was hard to love, but because he wanted to do it right. Because he cared. Because he wanted to stay.”
Ratio rubbed a hand down his face.
“And now he can’t say anything. He can’t ask anymore. And I can’t—I never answered. I never gave him what he needed without being prompted.”
He sucked in a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the blanket draped around Aventurine’s legs.
“I didn’t know he was hurting until he packed his bag and left. I didn’t know. And now it’s too late to fix it.”
Silence stretched, soft and full of weight.
Then Magdalene, voice steady and quiet:
“It’s not too late. You’re here. So is he. Have that talk, dear.”
Ratio blinked.
“Tell him all the things you wish you said back then,” she said. “He might not answer, but that doesn’t mean he’s not listening. That kind of love? It doesn’t vanish just because the words are gone.”
Ratio looked at Aventurine again. His voice dropped lower, reverent.
“Do you think he’d still want to hear it?”
“I think he already is,” she said. “And I think he’s still trying to love you, in the only ways he can.”
“But… how can he…?” Ratio’s voice caught as he knelt beside Aventurine. “How can he love me like this? When he’s in this state?”
Magdalene’s smile never faltered, “You’ll understand when the time comes, dear.”
======
Month Two
The house settled into routine after guidance from Magdalene and having a friend to talk to instead of his rubber duckies.
Ratio no longer had to check the chart before meal prep. He knew Aventurine preferred lukewarm broth at noon, with tofu cut into soft cubes, and that mint toothpaste made him gag. The whiteboard stayed mostly blank now—not because the schedule was forgotten, but because it had become instinct.
Ratio fed him on time. Knew which temperature of water Aventurine tolerated.
Learned when touch was welcomed and when it triggered distress. A tremor in Aventurine’s pinky meant discomfort. A flinch in his brow meant sound was too loud. A loose grip on Ratio’s sleeve meant he was calm or at ease.
“I’ve been rereading some old research articles,” Ratio murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind Aventurine’s ear. “You once told me you wanted to watch me work. Said you were curious about my projects—even if some of the terms were confusing.”
He paused, smoothing the blanket along Aventurine’s leg.
“Next time, I’ll take you to my lab and show you everything. The instruments, the data—you can ask me anything, Kakavasha. Anything at all.”
His gaze flicked toward the corner of the room, where the piano sat beneath a layer of dust and sunlight.
“Magdalene told me some patients respond to sound. One of hers used to hum opera to their plants. I suppose… if it works on ferns, it’s worth a try.”
Silence settled around them like soft linen. Aventurine’s fingers shifted—barely—a slow curl beneath the blanket.
Ratio paused, watching. A movement so faint, yet unmistakably his. Gently, he lifted his beloved’s hand and pressed a kiss to the ring finger. Like worship.
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Between brushing hair and changing linens, thoughts crept in like dust settling on bookshelves.
Was any of this really making a difference?
Talking to Aventurine, recording every breath and blink—when even he couldn’t be sure which reactions were meaningful, and which were random noise in a broken system.
He swallowed hard, biting back the urge to critique himself for every misstep, every missed signal. The habitual self-flagellation tightened like a vice around his thoughts—because if he got this wrong, if he pushed too hard or not enough, it wouldn’t just be failure.
It would be harm.
It would be his failure, and Aventurine would pay the price. Again.
I’m supposed to be the one who understands. Yet here I am, lost.
Still, he stayed.
Ratio’s fingers moved gently, brushing a stray lock of blond hair behind Aventurine’s ear. The strands were softer than he remembered—no longer gelled back, just loosely falling like silk across pale skin. He let his hand linger, hoping the warmth of his touch might register. Might anchor. Whispering into the quiet room, he offered the only thing he could: presence.
“I won’t fail you again, Kakavasha,” he murmured. “I’ll never leave you alone like last time. I’m here with you.”
He settled slowly behind Aventurine on the couch, every movement measured and quiet. His arms wrapped gently around the blond’s shoulders, applying just enough pressure to ground without overwhelming. His hands rested in Aventurine’s lap, fingers seeking and linking with his partner’s with deliberate care.
“Always by your side,” he whispered, barely audible—as if speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate in the room.
The faint warmth of Aventurine’s skin beneath his palms was a quiet anchor in the uncertain stillness. Ratio watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest—like a metronome keeping time in a room gone silent. Small signs. But they were something.
He rested his chin lightly on the crown of Aventurine’s head, fingertips tracing feather-light circles along his arms. The gentle rhythm soothed him too—calm drawn from repetition, from contact.
Leaning in, Ratio pressed a soft kiss to the top of Aventurine’s head, the touch a wordless vow.
I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.
This hug isn’t just for him. It’s for me too.
To hold onto something real. Something warm.
I hope he can feel it—this small, steady warmth I’m sending. Even if he can’t respond. Even if his body stays still… I want him to know he’s not alone.
Ratio whispered again, voice low and steady.
“I’m right here, my love. I won’t make you cry again.”
Aventurine didn’t pull away. His body shifted just enough to lean into the warmth, a small comfort in the quiet connection.
Ratio stayed like that, careful and still, holding space for his partner in the way words couldn’t.
==============
It was during one such afternoon that it happened.
Sunlight spilled across the sheets like melted honey. Aventurine lay still, his face angled toward the window, lashes catching gold.
Ratio had just finished brushing his hair, gentle and slow, murmuring a half-apology for the last knot he tugged too hard.
“I know, I know. Not my finest work today. Maybe a five out of ten.”
Aventurine let out a low, airy hum. Barely there. Not distressed. Not disapproving.
Ratio froze. Aventurine had made sounds before. Usually to indicate if the bathwater was too hot or the food was disgusting. But this sound?
Was Aventurine responding to his comment about the grading?
“…Was that a six?” he wondered, not daring to ask aloud.
He didn’t say it aloud—only smiled faintly and made a quiet note in his journal:
Day 78 – Subject emitted non-negative hum. No visible signs of distress. Possibly indicates grooming routine is acceptable. Possibly… praise.
He underlined “praise” three times. Then scratched out two.
He still didn’t fully believe it… yet now, he didn’t just hope. He waited, because maybe, just maybe, something more might answer back.
=======
Month Three
It started with a sound.
Barely audible. A long hum. Almost melody like.
Then silence.
Ratio rushed in from the kitchen, only to find Aventurine still, gazing off at nothing from his wheelchair.
“Kakavasha?”
Silence.
“Did I imagine it?”
But two nights later, it happened again. However, the moment Ratio opened the door, the sound stopped.
“Kakavasha, were you playing with me?”
He chuckled—tiredly, weakly.
“Secretive as ever,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe. “We’re not at the casino table, love. There’s no need to put on a show.”
Ratio came prepared for the third attempt.
He set up discreet CCTV in the shared rooms. Just for safety, he told himself. Just in case.
And so, the waiting game began.
When the humming finally came, it was barely audible on the recordings—like wind brushing over glass. But Ratio was overjoyed. He had caught it! Initially they were only fragments. Just seconds at a time. But they were real.
Yet it’s always when Aventurine was alone. Never when Ratio was watching.
The melody wasn’t consistent—just fragments. But somehow, it always felt… gentle. Like something half-remembered.
Familiar, even.
Ratio couldn’t place it yet. But his chest ached every time he played it back.
“…A tune,” he murmured.
Ratio began cataloging the humming—like any other observational log. This time, he swapped his usual spreadsheets and neuro maps for a notebook lined with faded staff paper. It felt strange. Sentimental, even.
But functional.
He knew how to read music. Self-taught, methodical, a scientist’s precision. His own playing had always been structured and clean—perfectly measured notes and rhythms.
But this tune was different.
Each tone Aventurine hummed, Ratio transcribed as best as he could. The melody didn’t follow the predictable patterns he knew. Notes lingered just a little too long. Intervals repeated, but never quite the same way twice. Small variations, almost like a secret language.
It felt… emotional. Raw. Like something buried deep in memory.
Ratio’s fingers hovered over Aventurine’s tablet, scrolling through music playlists. Familiar songs, genres he recognized—classical, jazz, pop—all neatly organized. But none matched the fragments he’d captured.
Then a thought struck him: this had to be something more… cultural.
After two months of tending to schedules, meals, and silent observations—of learning to read the smallest shifts in Aventurine’s stillness—Ratio hadn’t touched his research projects. The world of data, hypotheses, and equations had been shelved, eclipsed by the immediacy of care.
But now, sitting with the faded staff paper and the strange, elusive melody, something stirred in him—a flicker of the old spark, the thrill of investigation.
His pen moved with renewed purpose, tracing arcs and notes like clues waiting to be uncovered. The rhythm teased at his intellect, drawing him back to the world of puzzles and patterns he had long loved.
Each note played on his piano was a small victory—a bridge between the clinical and the personal, the past and the present.
It was more than science now. It was hope.
Aventurine’s forgotten tune was pulling him back—to his passion, to a connection, to the fragile possibility of communication beyond words.
He played it again on his monitorless screen, drawing the line with a stylus that tracked pitch sensitivity. The program visualized the tune in abstract shapes—like wind tracing memory.
No autotune. No filters. Just raw tonal slope.
Ratio played it a third time, slower, this time adding the breathless pause he’d noticed in the original hum. The melody shifted—fragile, but intentional. As if someone had once sung it by firelight.
============
He brought the paper and a soft recording to Magdalene the next day.
She listened quietly, hands folded in her lap.
When the last note faded, she exhaled.
“Sounds like a folk tune.”
Ratio nodded thoughtfully. “I was thinking the same. It doesn’t match anything I’ve encountered in my own studies. Do you recognize it?”
“Not this one,” she said gently. “But I’ve heard patients hum like this before. Mostly elders, back when I did rural rotations. Even when they forgot their own names, some remembered songs—something their mother sang, or a tune from a village festival. Music is often the last thread that stays intact.”
Ratio let her words sink in, the weight of that quiet truth settling between them.
Ratio stared at the audio printout, mind whirring.
Magdalene gave him a sideways glance.
“What’s that head of yours cooking?”
But Ratio was already lost in thought. Unaware as an apple fell on his head.
========
That night, after tucking Aventurine into bed, Ratio settled at his desk, eyes tracing the sheet music.
He picked up his communicator and dialed.
“Jade? It’s me.”
“Ratio,” Jade’s voice came through, calm but concerned. “How’s Aventurine? I haven’t been able to visit—security protocols and all.”
Ratio hesitated, then exhaled softly. “He’s stable. Not improving, but not worse. The injury… it’s complicated. His brain is like a fractured mirror—reflections of who he was, but scattered.”
There was a pause. “That must be hard.”
“It is,” Ratio admitted. “But there are moments. Small ones. Like this tune he’s been humming. I’m trying to understand it, hoping it’s a thread back to him.”
Jade’s tone softened. “That sounds hopeful, at least.”
Ratio took a breath. “Jade, I’d like to request permission to access Aventurine’s full profile—especially the restricted files on his clan, the Avgins from Sigonia-IV. I want to research their history, culture, anything that might shed light on this melody.”
Jade’s voice grew serious. “That’s some of the most sensitive data in the IPC archives. The clan is extinct, with very little surviving documentation. Access isn’t usually granted lightly.”
“I understand,” Ratio said firmly. “But this could be crucial—for his recovery, maybe even his memory. Please, grant me clearance.”
Jade blinked, surprised. “You think it’s from his clan?”
“I suspect so. But the Avgins’ historical record is fragmented. Much of it was either destroyed during the Katica-Avgin Extinction Event or deliberately erased. I need whatever remains—theological texts, oral archives, rival clan studies. Even disputed anthropology.”
Jade sighed and tapped her console. “Ratio, you realize this isn’t a standard request. That data is sensitive. Some of it… heavily politicized.”
“I do. But this is not a research vanity. It is for Aventurine. His past. His voice.”
There was a long silence before Jade finally said, “Alright. I’ll override the restrictions and grant you provisional access. Four hours. After that, the window closes.”
Ratio bowed his head slightly. “You have my gratitude.”
“Just don’t get buried in it,” she warned. “And Ratio?”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing a good thing.”
He ended the call and turned back to the desk, already logging in.
The Avgins.
A desert-dwelling people silenced by violence. Their language had no surviving audio. Their theology rejected Aeons and worshipped a Mother Goddess—Gaiathra Triclops, represented as a left palm with three eyes. The locals referred to her as Mama Fenge.
Their sacred rites were oral. Never written. Their festivals were annual acts of symbolic death and rebirth.
And their songs?
Ratio could find only scraps.
Descriptions from rival clans, usually biased. One documented what it called a “rain-welcoming hymn,” but the same melody, when contextualized through Avgin lens, wasn’t about weather at all—it marked grief. The term for “rain” in the rival Katican dialect was selat, but in the Avgin tongue? It was shvalari, a word that also meant “tears of the divine.”
Ratio rubbed his eyes.
“So even the vocabulary diverges,” he murmured, eyes tracing over the margin notes. “Same melodic form. Two meanings. Two worlds.”
The pitch dip—was that the Avgin tonal marker for yearning? No, wait. Vigilance. But paired with the trill, and that ascending bridge…
He tapped the pencil lightly against his jaw, then underlined a passage again.
“This isn’t just music,” he whispered. “It’s memory. Encrypted in song. A personal dialect of loss… and survival.”
A pause.
Then, softer—hopeful:
“Perhaps even… affection?”
He leaned back, hand resting briefly over his chest as if steadying the rhythm inside him.
The Avgins believed music was lived, not written.
Their oral codex—a legacy passed down through sound, not ink.
And if the rival clans had misunderstood the same tune as a rain chant…
Aventurine’s phrasing had altered it. Bent it. Softened it.
A trill where there should have been a rest.
A descending minor cadence, repeating.
Like a name spoken without voice.
“This is… personal,” he breathed. “Not ceremonial. Not communal.”
A pulse of realization struck him in the chest like a tuning fork.
“This affectionate tune… what does it mean?”
He turned back to the page, eyes tracing each flourish.
Each tremble in the melody told a story—not of war, not of rain or harvest.
“A tune about affection… a song… could it be—?”
==========
Somewhere far away, he can hear someone was playing the song again.
Slowly.
Gently.
Wrong in some places, but close enough that it stirred something in his chest.
Something warm.
He could no longer name the days. His body had stilled. His voice had grown quiet.
But he remembered the song.
And he remembered why he sang it.
You’re almost there, Veritas.
He couldn’t hold Ratio’s hand the way he used to.
Couldn’t banter. Couldn’t tease him.
But he saw everything.
The sleepless nights.
The notebooks stacked like fragile scaffolds.
The charts on the whiteboard and walls.
The way Ratio carried him from room to room, never once complaining.
Always gentle. Always careful.
The song had begun as a memory.
But now?
It was a message.
I know you'll understand my song.
He just needed Ratio to reach the final chord.
He believed the melody would carry his heart’s message where words had failed.
A song of affection.
A song meant for Ratio.
I’ll keep humming until you hear me.
The End.