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"Are you sure about deleting it?" Silver Wolf's finger hovered above the keyboard, a single tap away from rewriting an entire life worth of memories.
"I–..." Kafka hesitated, a solemn look cast upon a lifeless body in her arms, cold and motionless. "I don't want to. Aeons, I wish I didn't have to–"
A warm teardrop against pale skin, blood red fingernails digging crescents into her palms, as she haphazardly tried to hide her face away. A sympathetic look, hidden under layers and layers of trained indifference.
"Yes," Kafka finally says, voice shaky and rough, so unlike herself that Silver Wolf knows all too well. "She doesn't need me in her life again. I can't thread her Path anymore"
Silver Wolf sighed—under any other circumstances, the weight of the decision would have been on her shoulders; but this time, she's not the one making the calls, she doesn't need to.
The Lovers is a cursed Tarot card, after all.
A simple tap, and a sound of confirmation, "All done. But..." Silver Wolf double checks the new data, a flash of fond surprise crosses her face, and she turns to Kafka, "She will remember you anyway. Not your history together, nothing about you, but she will remember you. There's nothing I can do about it"
Kafka frowns, for such a possibility has not been accounted for in her carefully designed plan. "..Why?"
"Perhaps, I don't have that much authority over a true Aeon, albeit deceased, but you're the only 'file' in her memory I'm not able to destroy" Silver Wolf runs a few tests, and snickers fondly, "Looks like you absolutely stole the heart of The Trailblaze, Kafka. The only way to delete your 'file' out of her systems is to erase her from existence altogether"
Kafka sharply turned to the body in her arms, unable—and not caring enough anymore—to hide her trembling lips, nervously biting on the sensitive skin, as she pulled the inanimate body closer to herself, embracing it tightly, drops of blood smearing on the dirty, already heavily bloodied T-shirt.
"Why, Stelle?" she whispered hastily, breathlessly, into the shoulder of the deceased. "Why don't you just forget me! You fucking died because of me! You should!.. you should just hate me..."
Her voice dissolved into muffled mumbles, irregular hiccups, but Silver Wolf did not complain, neither did she make an effort to record Kafka's unfamiliar behaviour.
In the end, it's not every day that your Aeon dies in your arms; but for Kafka, it was much more personal. She lost her lover, and that's not something Silver Wolf could easily overlook, without losing her last shreds of humanity. She was not yet ready to bid them farewell.