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Summary
Wolfram once again stroked the familiar portrait with his black-veiled palm. In the painting, Yuuri gazed back at him tenderly.
He remembered the sunny day when he first painted Yuuri — the warmth of the sunlight, the smiles that still existed back then.
Now all that remained was the cold canvas and a heart devoured by self‑reproach.
— He saw himself as the murderer, atoning with fire, unaware that the pain of the living can never be burned away.