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Joshua blinked against the break of day that seeped through the curtains as he felt the sensation of a soft, heavy blanket draped over him. The room smelled comfortable, highlighted by lavender and something warm to him—not the usual smell of an infirmary. As he continued to move to wakefulness, he became aware of another weight pressed against his chest—soft and steady, like the rhythmic breathing of someone deeply asleep.
He tilted his head down, and Jote was wrapped in his arms. Her breaths' quiet rise and fall matched his own and grounded him in a way he couldn't comprehend. For a moment, he lay there, caught between the blissful peace of the present and the vague, nagging sense that this idyllic scene was foreign, even if he couldn't yet explain why.
He pushed that feeling away and watched her sleep. The details of her face were softer, and she carried a gentleness to her expression he'd rarely seen in the intensity of their day-to-day lives. She looked different yet entirely the same as if he were seeing her true self after a lifetime of burdens and battles. Joshua felt the consequence of years he could barely remember in this stillness—years filled with shared laughter, confessions, and quiet evenings like this.
He ran his fingers lightly along the curve of her shoulder, and she stirred, shifting against him with a soft murmur. She blinked her eyes open, and he saw something he'd only ever dreamed of in them. A raw, unguarded love that looked back at him without hesitation or fear. She smiled, a lazy, content smile, as she reached up and traced a finger along his jaw.
"Good morning, Joshua," she murmured, her voice rich with warmth and a familiarity that sent a shiver through him.
His name. How could something so simple make him feel like he'd finally come home? He felt a pang of something deeper like he didn't deserve this, but that faded with the quiet intimacy of her gaze. Joshua felt like he'd been waiting for it his entire life for this moment.
The faint sound of tiny, hurried footsteps broke his reverie, and soon, two small figures burst into the room. Their daughter's blonde hair bounced as she climbed onto the bed, eyes bright with joy, while their son followed, more reserved but with a familiar spark of curiosity.
"Papa! Mama!" their daughter giggled and nestled between them while her brother settled by Jote's side and slipped his small hand into his mother's.
Joshua felt the swell of their love and his family surrounding him in a way he never thought possible. He thought this was enough for now and allowed himself to believe in it and surrender. He was content to ignore the creeping feeling that somewhere, beyond this perfect morning, lay the truth he didn't want to face.
Joshua spent the morning reveling in the domesticity that felt wonderful but surreal. In the small kitchen, Jote moved gracefully. Her laughter was a quiet melody, and she guided their daughter, who was determined to help prepare breakfast despite her tiny hands.
Their son, still in his sleepy daze, tugged at Joshua's sleeve. "Papa, can you make the fire for breakfast?" he asked.
Joshua blinked as a slight hesitation caught him off guard. Jote generally reprimanded him for using his magic and would only allow it in times of need, but here... there was no fear, no need to shield his children from what he was. He offered his son a soft smile and ruffled his hair.
"Of course, my little knight." Joshua extended his hand toward the hearth and summoned a small, controlled flame with barely a thought. It flared up and cast a golden light over the room. His son's face lit up in delight, and he leaned against his father as pride radiated from him.
"Papa is the best!" he declared with absolute certainty.
Jote glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes playfully as she caught Joshua's gaze. "I think you're spoiling him," she teased. She reached for a bowl, sprinkling flour over their daughter's eager hands. "Next thing we know, he'll expect you to make fire for all his little toys, too."
Joshua chuckled. "And what about you?" he countered, arching an eyebrow. "You have always been the one to indulge their every whim."
Jote shrugged with a mischievous glint in her gaze. "They have inherited their father's charm. Besides, they're only little once."
After preparing breakfast as a family, they gathered around the table. Laughter and chatter filled the small kitchen. Their daughter's eyes, wide with delight, held up her slightly lopsided pancake, grinning proudly. "Look, Mama! I made it all by myself!"
Jote leaned down and feigned a look of awe. "Why, it's perfect! Almost as good as Papa's." She turned her gaze briefly to him and smiled. Joshua blushed as his love for her and their life grew with every passing second.
Their son turned to Joshua with a severe expression as if he were processing something meaningful in his mind. "Papa, will I be able to make fire when I grow up, too?"
Joshua's smile softened, and he gently touched his son's shoulder. "Perhaps. But remember, being able to create fire doesn't make you strong."
The boy seemed to consider this, nodding solemnly, clearly trying to absorb his father's wisdom. Jote watched them, a soft smile gracing her lips, her eyes glistening with pride. She reached across the table and brushed her fingers against Joshua's. In that moment, he felt the unspoken connection they'd always shared.
After breakfast, they took their children outside. Joshua lifted his daughter onto his shoulders, and she squealed in delight. Her laughter echoed through the open air while his son clung to his hand, watching him with awe.
As they walked through the meadow surrounding their home, Jote slipped her hand into his. "Do you ever think about how lucky we are?" she murmured.
Joshua glanced at her and squeezed her hand. "Every day," he replied. "Sometimes I feel as though this is a dream... That it's too good to be true."
Jote leaned her head against his shoulder, watching their children run ahead, chasing each other through the tall grass. "If it is a dream, I don't want to wake up."
Her words lingered in his mind, and that squeezing, bittersweet ache returned to coil around his heart, making it flutter with uncertainty. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close as they stood together to watch their children.
The sun began to set and painted the sky in hues of pink and gold. Their daughter ran back to them, breathless and flushed. "Mama, Papa, come see! The stars are starting to come out!"
Joshua crouched down to her level and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "Alright, my little star-gazer. Lead the way."
They followed their children to a small hill overlooking the valley, where they settled down together and had the children nestled between them. As the first stars appeared in the sky, Jote leaned against Joshua's shoulder and eased her hand into his.
"Tell us a story, Papa," his son pleaded, resting his head on Joshua's arm, eyes heavy with sleep.
Joshua looked down at his family, his heart swelling with a warmth that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He cleared his throat, his voice soft. "Alright… let me tell you about the Phoenix."
And as he spoke, weaving tales of fire and flight, strength and sacrifice, he felt Jote's hand tighten, grounding him in this perfect moment. Deep within him, a flicker of doubt rose, a distant awareness that tugged at the edges of his mind, whispering of a reality he didn't want to face.
-
Joshua tried to ignore the feeling of nagging at first. He brushed off the strange sensation that something was misplaced for weeks, maybe even months. Perhaps it was the lack of marks on the walls where his son had once scrawled with chalk or the odd way the flowers in the garden never wilted, always in a state of perfection. He forced himself to smile and focus on his family and the love they shared, but the questions nagged at him like a splinter he couldn't remove.
One evening, as they sat around the table for dinner, Joshua tried to push the thought away yet again. His son regaled them with tales from his lessons while his distracted daughter attempted to stack the remains of her food into a "tower as big as Papa." Joshua smiled absently, but his gaze drifted to the window, where the sunset burned in an impossibly vivid orange, precisely the same as it had every evening before.
"Papa?" His son's voice snapped him back. "Are you listening?"
Joshua forced a smile and reached across the table to tousle his hair. "Of course, my little knight. You were saying?"
His son beamed and continued his tale of bravery, but Jote's gaze lingered on him, and her brow knit with quiet concern. Later that night, after the children were tucked into bed, she approached him in their bedroom and rested her hand on his shoulder.
"My love, is something wrong?" she said softly, brushing his hair away from his forehead. "You have been distant lately."
He hesitated and searched her face. It was so familiar yet almost too perfect and unchanged. The worry in her eyes looked natural and felt genuine. Maybe he was just imagining things, overthinking, finding faults where none existed. He couldn't bear worrying about her, not when she'd been his anchor in this quiet, beautiful life.
"It's nothing, Jote," he mumbled, then pulled her close and pressed his lips against her forehead. "I supposed I'm just tired."
She looked up at him as her dark eyes scanned his face as if she could see past the surface of the storm beneath. "I know that look, Joshua. It's more than tiredness. Please... don't shut me out."
He held her gaze and smiled. "I won't."
However, as the days passed, the minor inconsistencies grew more noticeable. A book he swore he'd left open on the table appeared back on the shelf, closed. A scratch on his arm healed impossibly fast. Though beautiful, the colors of the sky seemed eerily still, as if painted and left untouched. The children laughed and played, blissfully unaware, while Joshua fought to keep himself grounded, to maintain the fragile peace of this world that seemed to be holding its breath.
One day, as he was tending to the patch of flowers in their garden, he froze and noticed the roses. They were red, every last petal vivid as blood—but hadn't they been yellow only the day before? His mind raced as a cold realization crept over him. He turned to call for Jote to ask if she noticed it too, but as he did, a strange flicker danced at the edge of his vision. He blinked, and for the briefest moments, he saw the flowers shift—no longer roses, but some strange, dark bloom he didn't recognize.
"Joshua?" Jote's voice pulled him back, and when he turned, she was standing there, her head tilted in concern.
"Did...you see that?" he asked, gesturing to the flowers as his voice trembled.
She looked at him with soft confusion and smiled. "See what, my love? The roses are as lovely as ever."
Jote's gentle dismissal sent a chill through him, and he forced a nod. He swallowed his doubts as she took his hand and led him back inside. Yet, as they lay side by side that night, he could feel the foundation of this world crumbling, even if he was the only one who noticed.
The final crack came one morning over breakfast. His daughter, usually a whirlwind of boundless energy, sat silently, eyes blank, her tiny hands folded neatly on the table. His son was also oddly quiet; no word escaped his lips as he poked at his food. Joshua frowned, reaching out to touch his son's shoulder.
"Are you feeling alright?" Joshua asked gently.
His son looked up at him with empty eyes and replied with a hollow tone. "Everything is perfect, Papa. Just as it should be."
The words were flat and rehearsed, like a puppet reciting lines. Joshua's hand froze, and he looked across the table at Jote. Her gaze was empty, and her face was serene but vacant. His heart hammered as a sense of dread choked him.
"Jote...?" he whispered and reached out, feeling the trepidation in his chest spread.
She smiled a soft, vacant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Everything is perfect, Joshua. We're all...happy."
The walls seemed to pulse as they bent in on themselves, and suddenly, he felt as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. He stumbled back, gasping, and clutched the table's edge for support as the world around him began to shatter, like the pages of a book being turned too quickly.
"No," he murmured and shook his head. "This... isn't real."
Jote's face faltered, and her features blurred and shifted until her eyes became darker and seeped from her eyelids. She reached for him, and her soft, graceful hand melded into something gray, tipped with claws. "You wanted this, didn't you?"
He recoiled from her touch as her voice melded with his—Ultima's. "No...! I want you, Jote. The real you. Not this—this illusion!"
The world trembled, and the walls around him faded into darkness. He could feel himself being pulled, drawn back toward something sharp, painful—a reality he'd been avoiding. But even as the dream crumbled, he saw Jote's face, her natural face, with a haunting sadness behind her eyes.
As he slipped further from the fantasy, her voice echoed around him, soft and mournful. "I'll be waiting, Joshua. I'll always be here...waiting."
And then, in a blink, he was gone, pulled back to reality's harsh, cold light. The sterile chill of the infirmary enveloped him as he opened his eyes to the painful truth: it had been a dream, a cruel, twisted gift from Ultima. The life he'd yearned for, the peace he'd tasted—it was all nothing more than an illusion, a whisper of what he longed to have.
For a moment, he half-expected to hear the laughter of his children and to feel the warmth of Jote's hand nestled in his. To see the morning sunlight spilled over their shared bed. But instead, his gaze met the concerned eyes of Jote. Her brow furrowed, tears beaded on her lower lashline as she scanned his face with a worry so deep it pierced through his disoriented mind.
He lay there and stared at her as his heart twisted painfully to the truth settling into him. Everything he had just lived, the home they had built together, and the children they had cherished was all a cruel nightmare crafted by Ultima as punishment for imprisoning him within Joshua's body. He'd always dreamed of such a life but knew it was impossible with the crystal's curse eating away at his body. All of that was ripped away so frantically that it left nothing but the cold void of the infirmary.
His hand trembled as he reached out, unable to stop grazing his fingers against Jote's cheek. She was warm beneath his touch. Her skin was so warm and so soft. He felt a desperate, aching need to hold onto this reality, to feel something that wasn't a cruel illusion. He cupped her cheek with a gentleness he hadn't dared show her in years. His thumb traced a faint line along her skin as he drank in her presence.
Jote froze, and her eyes widened as her cheeks dusted with pink. Her lips parted in shock as she looked at him, barely able to breathe. "Your Grace...?" Her voice was a whisper, laced with uncertainty and a hint of something that almost seemed like longing. "You—You're delirious from Ultima's influence. I—I should go. I need to inform the Elders that you've awakened."
"No," he murmured as his voice cracked. He tightened his hold on her, and his fingers trembled as he clung to the only anchor he had left in this reality. "Jote, please don't go. Stay here. Just stay."
But her resolve was already slipping, and her face became unreadable as she pulled back to break free of his grasp. "You need to rest. You've been unconscious for days. I need to let everyone know you're awake." She took another step back, and her eyes darted away from him to keep herself guarded. "You're not yourself right now."
He reached for her again, outstretching his hand in desperation. "Wait, please!" His fingers brushed the air where her hand had been, and he saw a flash of something in her eyes, something vulnerable. She shook her head as her face tightened with restrained resolve.
"I'll return soon," she whispered, almost as if she was convincing herself. And before Joshua could call after her again, she slipped from the room to leave him alone as his hand still reached out to the empty space she'd left behind.
Silence settled heavily around him, and his heart pounded in the quiet. The warmth of Jote's touch, the softness of her cheek, lingered on his fingertips. He felt the weight of loss settles over him like a suffocating shroud. His chest tightened where Ultima's crystal lay, and his breaths came out ragged, each one aching with the memory of the life he could never have.
Ultima had given him a taste of heaven, leaving him to drown in the emptiness of his reality. He shut his eyes, clenched his fists, and felt the rawness of a loss that wasn't even real. And yet, every inch of his being felt the pain of it as though he had lost them all over again.