Work Text:
You don’t remember, you say, because your heart is standing in an old orchard and crying, the way someone cries about losing their other half, and it doesn’t make sense because they usually know this world; they come and then go again, but they always, always remember.
Once upon a time, they stayed for years upon years, and that time was glorious and joyful—but even now, when they come and they go, they haven’t left you entirely.
Your heart stares up at you, eyes wide and wet, and then they’re gone and you’re left to wonder about this most unusual encounter.
When next you see them, they don’t remember that meeting. You’re creeping through a wizard’s tower, quiet as can be, and they join you, know without asking what to do. After you’ve escaped with your prize, running giddily, laughing into the woods, you ask them about it.
I saw you in the orchard, you say, but you looked… older. More tired. You barely remembered me.
That’s odd, says your heart, head tilted a little bit. I haven’t been there in years. But then again… they look down at their hands, flex their fingers carefully. …I’ve always felt there was something more to me. Something I was missing.
You keep seeing them, after that; sometimes they remember your adventures, and sometimes they don’t.
They always remember you.
On a long road through the woods, stony and painful underfoot, the mist swirling around you and blocking out the trees, you find a cabin whose walls are made of paper.
You knock on the door, for there is weariness in your bones.
Your heart is standing on the other side, wearing the look of their older, tired self.
You came, they say, and smile, and it feels like something fractured reuniting.