fat fuck puff puff

This time, you came alone.

No Chai tugging your arm toward cursed jewelry stands. No Hazelnut muttering about ice cream enchantments. No Earl Grey to raise a skeptical brow every time you lingered too long in a shadowed alleyway. Just you. You and your thoughts, heavy and strange and hard to untangle.

The city was quieter when you were alone.

It felt like every flickering lantern, every drifting wisp, every leaning balcony saw you in a way they didn’t when you were part of a group. The streets narrowed, curved, opened, then closed again like the Ghost City was breathing around you.

You didn’t have a destination.

You passed the Wisp & Whimsy, the ice cream shop glowing with that same familiar lavender light. But you didn’t go in. Instead, your feet carried you through unfamiliar streets, farther than you’d ever wandered, until the markets faded and the old buildings grew taller, more silent.

That was when you saw her.

At first, she seemed just another figure someone browsing an old collection of crystal jars in a half-crumbling stall tucked beneath the shade of a lopsided clocktower. But then she turned, and-

Your breath caught.

She was beautiful. Not in the obvious way…though yes, her features were delicate, her eyes striking, her expression as composed as carved marble but in a way that felt familiar.

Her hair shimmered like moonlight woven through the night sky. Long. Flowing. It didn’t move like normal hair. Not really. There was a softness to it, a float, a glint of distant stars in every shift. A faint echo of him.

Your stomach twisted.

No. No, you were just being paranoid.

She wasn’t him. She wasn’t related to him. It was coincidence. A trick of the light. The Ghost City played with perception all the time. Maybe it was just your mind looking for something it missed.

Still…

You hovered near the stall, pretending to admire the wares a jar of ink that glowed blue, a fractured mirror, a clock that ticked backward.

The woman turned toward you, as if sensing your presence.

She smiled.

“Out here on your own?” she asked, her voice soft and clear. It rang faintly like the bells of the Storyteller’s Circle, distant and haunting.

You blinked, startled. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Brave,” she murmured, folding her hands before her. “The city isn’t always so welcoming. Especially when you’re alone.”

You hesitated. “…I’ve been here before.”

She nodded once, gracefully. “Even so.”

Her gaze lingered, not invasive, but observant. You couldn’t quite tell if she was amused or just curious. You kept telling yourself her eyes weren’t gold, that it was just the way the sun slipped between the buildings. That they didn’t glow like old starlight. That it wasn’t the same kind of quiet stillness in her posture the kind he had when listening to you ramble.

Still. She didn’t act like she knew you.

“Do you often speak to strangers?” you asked, half-teasing.

She tilted her head slightly. “Only the ones who seem like they’re searching.”

Your breath stilled.

“I’m not…” you began, then stopped.

She said nothing.

“I just wanted a day to myself,” you said instead.

“A good reason,” she replied, brushing her fingers over one of the crystal jars. “Days like that are rare.”

You glanced away, eyes scanning the rooftops for something else, anything else to focus on. But the silence between you didn’t feel uncomfortable. Just… expectant.

“I’m not lost,” you said, almost stubbornly.

She smiled faintly. “Of course not.”

Then, she turned back to the stall as if the moment had passed. As if your presence didn’t matter much at all.

But your heart was still thudding.

You didn’t ask her name.

And she didn’t ask yours.

Because whatever that was, whoever she was, some part of you wasn’t quite ready to know.

So you stepped back, gave a small nod, and moved on through the city’s winding streets.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder…

…just once. You rounded the next corner quickly, putting as much distance between you and that strange interaction as the twisting streets of the Ghost City would allow. The buildings loomed a little taller now, casting warped shadows that didn’t quite match their structures, and the wind whispered like it knew you had questions you weren’t ready to ask.

You stopped under the soft glow of a floating lantern and exhaled sharply, hands on your hips.

“…Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “That was weird.”

You rubbed your arms as if that would shake off the feeling, but the unease lingered tight behind your ribs, cold at the nape of your neck.

Her voice, her hair, the way she had looked at you like she knew something. Like someone. But didn’t say.

And the worst part?

You believed her when she said nothing at all.

Nope. Nope nope nope. You gave your head a small shake and straightened.

“That’s it. I need ice cream.”

As if summoned by your declaration, the soft lavender glow of The Wisp & Whimsy appeared just ahead, tucked into its usual little alleyway. The bell above the door jingled as you stepped in, the sudden chill of sweet air hitting your face like a comfort spell.

Inside, the familiar sight greeted you: the glass cases glimmering with colors not found in nature, ghostly spoons stirring themselves, and the gentle hum of music from no visible source.

“Ah,” came the warm, wispy voice from behind the counter. The ghostly shopkeeper floated over, smiling in that way that always felt like he already knew what you needed. “Rough morning?”

You sighed. “You could say that.”

He nodded sagely. “Then you’re in need of a treat most extraordinary.”

You stared into the display case, watching as one of the flavors flickered from pale blue to rich indigo depending on how you tilted your head.

“…Something with pineapple,” you decided at last. “But something new.”

The ghost grinned. “Pineapple ripple with candied starshards it is.”

He scooped it into a mist-glass bowl that shimmered like it held a little piece of the sky, and you took it gratefully, slipping into your usual corner seat by the enchanted window where the glass showed not the street outside, but the last place you’d been happiest.

You watched the illusion ripple through your mind. You and your friends beneath the Storyteller’s lanterns, laughter caught in the spaces between words. You… leaning back into a certain Sage’s shoulder, eyes closed, his hair catching the light like stars trying to stay secret.

You smiled softly.

The taste of pineapple hit your tongue bright, sharp, sweet.

And slowly… the edge dulled. 

After finishing your ice cream at The Wisp & Whimsy, you wandered the city with the kind of aimless calm that only followed a sugar high and emotional exhaustion. You meandered through the market’s quieter alleys, through the narrow, winding corridors where ghostly lights floated just above your head, weaving between dreamlike archways and crumbling balconies.

She was there again.

Leaning against a forgotten fountain, one hand resting on the smooth stone, hair catching the ghostlight in a way that was just a little too familiar. Her expression, as she looked over at you, was unreadable somewhere between knowing and completely unbothered, as if this wasn’t strange at all.

You stopped mid-step.

Not again. What is even going on.

You blinked, unsure if you were hallucinating. Maybe the pineapple stardust combo had gone straight to your head. Maybe you were finally cracking under the academic pressure.

But no. She was definitely real. Definitely looking right at you.

You straightened, cautious now, heart ticking in quiet warning.

“…We meet again,” she said, voice just as smooth as before, drifting like soft bells through the chill of the city air.

You didn’t respond right away.

She wasn’t doing anything threatening. She wasn’t even approaching you. But something about this still didn’t sit quite right. You felt like a string had been tied to you and she was tugging it.

Eventually, you crossed your arms. “Are you following me?”

Her lips twitched…amusement, maybe. “No. But perhaps we’re drawn to the same places.”

Of course we are, you thought bitterly, eyeing the faint shimmer of her hair again.

Still, she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Not really.

“…Do you always hang around fountains, or is this a special occasion?” you asked, dry.

“Just admiring the architecture,” she said easily. “And you?”

You sighed. “Wandering. Thinking. Trying not to make bad decisions.”

“Ah,” she smiled faintly. “Then perhaps I shouldn’t be here.”

You gave her a long look.

She tilted her head. “May I join you?”

There it was.

You hesitated.

Every instinct told you to say no. Not because she felt dangerous, but because the not knowing was too much. Who was she? Why did she feel like a half-familiar memory pressing at the edge of your mind? Why did the shadows curve around her like they recognized her?

But she’d done nothing but ask a question.

So, with a half-hearted shrug, you said the words that usually came right before something unwise

“…Why not? How bad could it be?”

She smiled softly. Like she’d expected that answer all along.

“Lead the way, traveler,” she said.

And so you did. With cautious steps and your heart beating just a little too loud, you walked deeper into the Ghost City.

With her quietly beside you. You walked beside her through the winding paths of the Ghost City, the mist curling lazily around your ankles, the cobblestones glittering faintly under the light of the spectral lanterns. She said little just enough to keep the silence from feeling suffocating, but not enough to truly fill it. Still, there was something about her presence that felt… expectant.

You steered toward the Market of Forgotten Goods, partly for the comfort of its chaos, partly in hopes of finding something for your friends. A charm for Chai. An enchanted pen Hazelnut didn’t already own. Maybe a tea-blending kit Earl Grey would pretend not to like and then use every evening without fail.

You brought him up casually. Just a passing mention.

“Earl Grey would probably love this,” you murmured, lifting a half-cracked monocle enchanted to reflect only truths.

The woman beside you didn’t say anything right away.

But you saw it.

The flicker.

A shift in her eye, subtle but unmistakable. A twitch of a brow. A faint, almost imperceptible narrowing. Not full-blown anger. Not even annoyance. Just… something.

You blinked. Maybe you were imagining it. Reading too much into nothing.

Still, it stuck with you.

Especially when she suddenly said, too smoothly, “If you like it, I’ll get it for you.”

You turned to her, brows raised. “...What?”

“I’ll buy it,” she repeated. “Whatever catches your eye.”

You stared at her, thoroughly baffled. “You… don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” she replied, voice light. “You’re thoughtful. Curious. You speak like someone who doesn’t always let themselves be heard. You choose carefully. You linger where others rush.”

Your stomach tightened slightly.

That wasn’t the response of someone who just met you.

So naturally, you did the only reasonable thing in that moment:

You asked, carefully, “What’s your name?”

She paused.

Then, with a faint smile, she said, “Blueberry Milk.”

The name landed in your ears like a spell gone slightly sideways. You squinted at her, taking in her features again the iridescent strands of her hair, the glow in her eyes that shimmered with something ancient, something known.

It was not Shadow Milk Cookie’s name.

But it was… adjacent. As if her name was written with the same ink as his, just on a different page.

You stared at her a beat too long. “That’s really your name?”

“It is today,” she replied, breezy, as if that meant anything and nothing all at once.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more that she answered without flinching, or that the name sounded like it could’ve been real in the Academy’s long, winding registry of eccentric scholars and visitors.

“Right…” you said slowly. “Thanks, uh… Blueberry Milk.”

She grinned. “You say it like you don’t believe me.”

“I say it like I’ve met someone else with a similar name,” you muttered.

Her smile didn’t fade. But it didn’t warm, either.

You turned back to the market stalls, pretending your heart wasn’t thudding in a rhythm too close to dread and curiosity for comfort.

You weren’t sure who she really was.

But now, you were very sure this wasn’t just a coincidence. You walked a little more stiffly after that.

The name hung in the air like smoke you couldn’t quite wave away. Blueberry Milk. It sounded absurd and yet… not impossible. Not here. Not in the Ghost City, where ghosts could sell bottled starlight and clocks ticked backward, and people if they even were people could say names like that and get away with it.

Still, the resemblance was too uncanny. Her hair shimmered like dusk tangled in moonlight. Her posture? Effortless. Regal. She didn’t walk so much as glide. And her gaze sharp, but laced with a calm, cryptic patience that reminded you too much of him.

But she wasn’t him.

So you kept moving. Carefully. Casually.

Still, your thoughts gnawed at the edge of every step.

What was with that reaction to Earl Grey’s name? And why offer to buy things for you? And what are the odds someone like that would randomly cross your path twice in the same day?

Your eyes scanned the stall’s contents again. You weren’t even really looking anymore just pretending to so you didn’t have to stare at her.

Then your gaze landed on something small. A carved trinket box light blue, with constellations etched in silver on its lid. The kind of thing Chai Latte would probably squeal over, declaring it “absolutely necessary” despite having zero use for it. You picked it up, turning it over in your hand.

She stepped beside you.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said again, as calm as before.

And here’s the thing you should’ve said no. You should’ve questioned her harder, should’ve walked away, should’ve insisted on paying for it yourself like a responsible person.

But.

…You were a broke student.

“…Fine,” you muttered, handing the trinket box over. “But I’m not saying thank you more than once.”

She chuckled softly. “Once will suffice.”

You watched as she paid not with coin, but with a pressed silver token you didn’t recognize. The vendor took it without question.

Of course they did.

The box was wrapped in ghost-silk paper, handed to you delicately.

You stared at it in your hands.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual. “You do this often? Find strangers, offer to fund their shopping trips?”

She turned her gaze toward you. “Only the interesting ones.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“…You’re weird.”

Her smile widened just a little. “You’ve no idea.”

You let out a slow sigh. You weren’t sure if this was the start of a mystery, a mistake, or some weird cosmic prank. But for now?

You tucked the box under your arm.

Free stuff was free stuff.

You glanced sideways at her as the two of you meandered away from the market, your fingers brushing the soft ghost-silk wrapping of the trinket box.

She was quiet again, walking beside you with that same unbothered, gliding grace. The soft blue strands of her hair shimmered as they caught the Ghost City’s lanternlight, trailing like stardust behind her. You could almost hear your own thoughts warping around her, reshaping themselves into questions you weren’t sure how or even if you wanted answered.

Still… she hadn’t been anything but kind. Unsettling? Sure. Mysterious? Absolutely. But kind.

And beautiful.

Very, very beautiful.

You eyed the long, weightless strands of her hair again, aglow with that same cool, celestial shimmer you had come to associate with someone else entirely.

“…You’re a really beautiful lady,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Like, stupidly beautiful. It’s so unfair. I’m jealous of your hair. It doesn’t even move like normal hair it’s like… if a dream had a texture.”

That earned you the faintest tilt of her head. Not smugness. Not surprise. Just a quiet amusement behind her pale lashes.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.

You sighed dramatically. “It was a compliment. Just a jealous one.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, suddenly inspired, you looked up at her, a grin forming. “Do you wanna see something fun?”

She raised a brow. “Depends. What kind of fun?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you grabbed her hand and tugged gently, motioning her to follow. “C’mon. I’ll show you my favorite parts of the city. Real hidden gems. Ghost City special edition.”

To your mild surprise, she followed without resistance, her hand cold but soft in yours.

You led her through the drifting streets, veering off from the glowing plazas and into narrow corridors with arching ivy and whispering windows. You passed an old bookshop where the books rearranged themselves whenever you looked away, the glowing spines spelling out something different every time. A bridge of broken mirrors that reflected not your face, but your dreams. A quiet graveyard with floating paper lanterns for names.

And eventually…

Phantom’s Alley.

You stopped at the mouth of it.

The shadows there bent in ways they shouldn’t. The air changed. The hush was thicker. The whispering just below your hearing range began almost immediately.

You turned to her, watching her expression.

“Most people don’t like this place,” you said softly. “Too much… presence.”

She studied the alley with a thoughtful gaze. Then, she looked at you. “But you do.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like the city’s trying to talk to you, even if you don’t understand the words.”

She didn’t speak right away.

Then quietly she said, “I think it likes you.”

That gave you pause.

But before you could respond, she stepped past you into the alley, her pale blue hair glinting like the night sky fractured between two buildings.

And for the first time since you’d met her, you realized something else.

She belonged here.

Just as much as you did. Maybe even more. You watched her slip further into the shadowed threshold of Phantom’s Alley, her silhouette briefly swallowed by the thickening gloom. The whispering around you picked up soft, unintelligible murmurs brushing against your ears like cold fingertips. The Ghost City felt quieter here, but not empty. Never empty.

Your pulse quickened. Not from fear. Just… instinct.

“Wait-wait up!” you called, jogging a few steps after her.

She turned back slightly, the blue-white shimmer of her hair catching a distant lantern’s glow.

You caught up to her with a breathless grin, and without thinking, reached for her hand.

“We have to hold hands,” you said, a little too quickly. “It’s tradition.”

Her brow rose, clearly amused. “Tradition?”

“Yeah,” you replied, matter-of-fact. “Whenever my friends and I walk through this alley, we lock arms or hold hands. Y’know, for safety. And” You coughed, averting your gaze slightly. “because if someone gets spooked, they’re taking the rest of us down with them.”

She laughed, a sound that shimmered at the edges.

“Ah,” she said, her fingers curling around yours in a light, chilled grip. “So this is a tactical decision.”

“Absolutely,” you deadpanned. “Strategic survival.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “How scholarly of you.”

With your hand in hers, you stepped fully into the alleyway.

The shadows pressed in closer, the strange hum of long-dead voices draping the walls like forgotten curtains. But your grip stayed firm, her cool hand a steadying presence in the half-light..

You didn’t know why she was here, why she had followed, or waited, or looked at you with eyes too familiar for comfort.

But as you walked hand-in-hand into the strangest part of the city, one thought floated quietly behind the others:

If the alley tried to haunt you tonight… At least it wouldn’t be doing it alone. The shadows thickened as you walked deeper into Phantom’s Alley, your fingers still loosely laced with hers. The air here was heavier, like fog made from whispered secrets and old regrets, curling under your collar and between the seams of your thoughts.

Your steps echoed strangely, like the stone beneath you didn’t entirely want to hold your weight.

She walked beside you without fear, her gaze leisurely taking in the crooked windows above, the shifting light, the walls etched with runes that flickered in and out of existence.

Then, quietly, as if picking a moment from the hush itself, she asked, “What about you?”

You glanced at her. “What about me?”

She didn’t look at you, just let her eyes rest on a crooked door as you passed. “You know so much about this place. About magic. About your friends. But what do you want?”

You blinked.

“I-” And that was when a ghost leapt out of the wall.

It simply appeared, eyes glowing pale blue, its face twisted in an eternal expression of You should not be here.

You screamed.

It was instinctive, high-pitched, and absolutely involuntary.

You yanked back, nearly dragging her with you your hand still locked in hers and stumbled back into the opposite wall, heart racing.

“By the stars!” you gasped, clutching your chest. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t care how many times I’ve been here I hate it here.”

The ghost, satisfied with its mischief, faded back into the stone like it had never been there at all.

She-Blueberry Milk, or whatever her name really was was already laughing. Genuinely amused, her hand still holding yours despite your flailing.

“That’s your response to a ghost?” she asked, biting back another laugh.

“I have every right to scream!” you snapped, eyes wide, pulse still rattling in your throat. “It jumped out of a wall. What kind of freak does that?”

“It’s Phantom’s Alley,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Freaks are in the job description.”

You groaned and rubbed your temples. “I’m filing a complaint with the city council.”

“I’ll be sure to co-sign it.”

You looked at her warily. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have screamed too.”

She tilted her head. “I wouldn’t have.”

You glared.

She smiled.

And still, despite it all, your fingers remained intertwined.

Your heart was still racing… but maybe for more reasons than just a ghost. Once the final arch of Phantom’s Alley gave way to open air and the ghostly weight of the alley slipped from your shoulders, you collapsed onto the nearest stone bench with all the grace of a soggy scroll.

Your chest was still heaving, your heart thudding loud and fast like it was trying to claw its way out of your ribs. You pressed a hand against it, dramatic and winded, like you’d just survived a life-or-death duel instead of… ghostly prank number eighty-two.

The woman stood beside you, composed and far too elegant for someone who just walked through the ghost equivalent of a haunted trapdoor. Her pale hair drifted faintly in the still air, still unbothered, still celestial, and it made your flustered state feel ten times more humiliating.

You threw your head back and groaned.

“Okay. Okay. That was terrifying.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched with that faint, unshaken amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.

You sat up a little straighter, flinging your arms across the back of the bench and sighing dramatically.

“I usually don’t do that,” you insisted, gesturing vaguely toward the alley behind you. “That… scream? That little episode? Total fluke. I’m usually the brave one.”

“Mm,” she hummed, tone unreadable. “Of course.”

“I am!” you said, pointing a finger at her. “My friends are babies in that alley. Chai Latte screamed so loud once I think she scared the ghosts back.”

“And what about you?” she asked innocently. “What do you usually do in there, oh brave one?”

“I walk through like a normal person!”

She blinked. “Screaming’s not normal?”

“Not for me!” you said, though your face was heating up the more she didn’t let it go. “I’ve never screamed like that before. That was an exception. I was caught off guard. And it jumped out of the wall. The wall. Who does that?”

She was smiling now, soft and content, like watching you unravel was somehow deeply entertaining.

You narrowed your eyes, but leaned back again, finally starting to breathe normally.

“I’m not a coward,” you muttered.

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re looking at me like I’m a tiny, terrified first-year.”

“Not at all,” she said, settling beside you her presence cool, composed, and frustratingly hard to read. “I think you’re charming.”

You blinked.

That shut you up for a full two seconds.

“…You're evil,” you mumbled, hiding your face in your hands. “You're an evil, beautiful lady and I hate it here.”

She chuckled, the sound soft like chimes in the fog.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, shaking your head. But you didn’t move away from her.

Eventually, the thudding of your heart eased, and you sat in that moment together beneath the ghost-lanterns and the hush of a city that never quite slept, beside someone you didn’t understand in the slightest, but for some reason… didn’t want to leave just yet. You sat there for a while longer, the faint glow of the Ghost City settling like mist on your skin, the chaotic beat of your heart finally starting to return to something like normal. Your legs still felt a little shaky from the full-body fright Phantom’s Alley had gifted you, but at least you were no longer planning to fight a ghost with your bare hands.

Blueberry Milk sat beside you, statuesque and unbothered, like she hadn’t just watched you nearly ascend from sheer terror. Her posture was regal but relaxed, hands folded neatly in her lap, that shimmering, too-perfect hair cascading over her shoulder like woven light.

She made silence look intentional.

And honestly, that was suspicious too.

So, naturally, you turned toward her with narrowed eyes and asked the thing that had been bouncing around your head since she first approached you:

“…What are you doing in the city, anyway?”

She turned slightly, as if considering your question with more weight than necessary. “Wandering,” she said at last, “like you.”

“Okay, yeah, but I’m here to clear my head. This is kind of a comfort spot for me. My friends and I come here all the time. You just… appeared. Twice. In one day.”

Her lips curved. “Maybe the city led me to you.”

You raised a skeptical brow. “Do you always speak like a poetry book?”

She let out a light laugh. “Only when I’m being watched so closely.”

You flushed a little, looking away. “I’m not watching you. I’m investigating.”

She tilted her head. “And what are your findings so far, little scholar?”

You looked at her again. Those eyes unnervingly familiar. That voice, soft and deliberate. That presence, calm in the way ocean depths are calm: vast, unknowable, and a little dangerous.

“…You’re not exactly average,” you muttered. “You don’t act like someone who just got lost on her way through the astral paths.”

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she said, “The Ghost City calls many. Some hear it louder than others.”

You stared at her.

“Are you from here?” you asked. “Or are you just one of those people who always shows up when something weird’s about to happen?”

She smiled again, slow and secret.

And then, softly “Does it matter?”

You frowned, but before you could say anything, a street performer nearby let out a sharp whistle ghostly ribbons of color unfurling through the air and the sound made you flinch slightly.

She didn’t.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Still weird,” you muttered. “You. This whole day. Everything.”

She leaned slightly closer, voice lower now, almost like a whisper only meant for you.

“And yet… here you are. Still sitting beside me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

But you didn’t move away, either. You leaned back on the bench, the stone cool against your spine, the lanterns overhead shifting slowly in hue from pale violet to a dusky blue, like the sky forgetting how to be day.

Blueberry Milk sat beside you in that same graceful silence, watching the city move around you like it was alive. Maybe it was.

You exhaled, slow and tired, letting your head tip back slightly. The weight of the day hadn’t hit all at once, but now it was sinking into your limbs, into the spaces between your thoughts.

“I should probably head back soon,” you said after a moment, almost reluctantly. “We’re not allowed to stay out in the Ghost City after sundown unless we have clearance and I doubt ‘ditched class and had a weird day’ counts as a legitimate excuse.”

She turned to you, not speaking yet, just… listening.

You gave a soft huff and glanced sideways at her.

“I’ve got a couple hours. Maybe less. Then it’s back across the river.” You let your gaze drift skyward. “Back to reality. Homework. Studying. Trying to keep up with professors who are way too brilliant for their own good.”

A pause.

Then, quieter “…I’m not going to my tutoring session today.”

Blueberry Milk didn’t respond right away.

You glanced over to see if she was judging you, but her expression was curious, if anything. Like she was waiting to hear more.

“I’m just… tired,” you muttered. “I’ve had a day. Crying, running into ghosts, being judged by people with hair better than mine” you gave her a sidelong look “and screaming in alleys that I usually conquer with dignity.”

She smiled faintly. “It sounds like you earned your rest.”

You nodded. “Exactly. Sage of Truth or not, he’ll live. I’ll just… tell him I was studying elsewhere. Or ran into a” you paused, then snorted “a time anomaly. I’m sure that’d hold up.”

She chuckled quietly. “You’re surprisingly creative when avoiding accountability.”

“I consider it a gift,” you said with a tired grin.

You rested your arms on your knees and looked out at the drifting mist between the buildings, letting the quiet settle again between you.

It felt okay not to rush back. To stay just a little longer in a city that didn’t ask you to be anything but curious.

Just a couple more hours.

And then… whatever came next. You sat there, the mist curling low at your ankles, still catching your breath from the day. Blueberry Milk said nothing, but you could feel her watching you.

And maybe it was the exhaustion. Or the ghost ice cream. Or the fact that she didn’t seem like the kind of person to run back and tattle to professors.

But the words just sort of slipped out.

“I have this tutor,” you said with a sigh, arms resting over your knees, voice more grumble than speech. “He’s so annoying.”

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t need to.

“I mean, he’s brilliant,” you continued, “probably knows more about magic than the rest of the faculty combined. But stars above, he’s insufferable sometimes.”

A soft noise beside you an interested hum.

“Like, I’ll do one mildly reckless thing, and he goes on this ten-minute lecture spiral about magical volatility and consequences and oh dear scholar, must you test the edge of logic so frequently?” You pitched your voice into a poor imitation of his deep, amused, condescending.

Blueberry Milk let out a small, quiet laugh. “Sounds like he cares.”

You groaned. “He’s just so composed. Always. Like nothing gets under his skin. Except me. I think I get under his skin.”

You paused.

“…Actually, I know I do.”

She tilted her head. “And this bothers you?”

“No,” you said immediately, then wavered. “Okay, maybe a little. I mean, who likes being scolded by someone who walks through hallways like a living library?”

Another laugh from her.

“I swear,” you muttered, “he finds a way to turn every sentence into a philosophical debate. Even when he’s complimenting me, it’s like… ‘You are a paradox I have yet to fully unravel.’ What does that even mean? Just say good job.”

You leaned back again, groaning toward the sky.

“I’m convinced he does it on purpose. Just to annoy me. He probably writes his metaphors ahead of time. Has a little metaphor notebook labeled ‘how to subtly win arguments against stubborn students.’”

Blueberry Milk looked like she was holding back a grin.

You exhaled, rubbing your eyes.

“But,” you added more quietly, “he’s… not all bad. He listens. Actually listens. And when he explains things, it’s like the world finally slows down enough to make sense.”

A beat.

“…Still annoying, though.”

“I can tell,” she said mildly.

You side-eyed her.

She was smiling.

It felt almost like she was laughing at a joke you didn’t know she was in on.

Still, you huffed, letting your head rest back against the bench again.

“Ugh. I’m not going to think about him today. I’m off the clock.”

“Fair,” she said.

And yet, despite all your protests…

You were thinking about him.

Even now. You tilted your head toward Blueberry Milk with a sly, playful squint.

“Okay, no. This isn’t fair,” you said, pointing a finger at her. “I’ve spilled like… my entire soul to you today. My haunted alley trauma. My tutor-induced suffering. It would be rude if you didn’t share something in return.”

She arched a brow. “Is that so?”

You leaned in, grinning. “Yes. Emotional balance. Scholar’s code. You can’t let me spiral in a vacuum.”

A pause, just long enough to make you wonder if she’d decline.

But then, her expression softened into something more contemplative. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and said, “Alright. I’ll tell you about a student I once tutored.”

That piqued your curiosity instantly. “You tutor too?”

“On occasion,” she replied smoothly. “They were… unique. A little chaotic.”

You snorted. “So far this sounds familiar.”

“They didn’t grasp traditional spell matrices at first,” she continued, eyes distant, voice thoughtful. “The structure bored them. They found it too rigid. But when left to their own methods, instinct and intuition they began to show something rare.”

“…They sound kind of like a menace,” you muttered under your breath.

“They were,” Blueberry Milk agreed, lips twitching. “Always asking ridiculous questions. Challenging every answer I gave. Sometimes just for the sake of it.”

“Oh my stars, they are a menace,” you gasped, dramatically placing a hand to your heart. “You poor thing.”

“I didn’t mind it,” she said, the barest hint of warmth in her voice. “They were persistent. Inquisitive. Restless. But they had heart. And they never wanted to surpass anyone else. They just wanted to understand. Even when they doubted themselves.”

You stilled at that. Your laughter quieted.

Blueberry Milk tilted her head slightly, watching you.

You looked away, tugging at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Yeah, well. If your student was anything like me,” you muttered, “they were probably annoying, loud, a little too good at asking the kind of questions that derail a lesson plan.”

“Without a doubt.”

You groaned, slumping back against the bench. “Why do we always sound like walking disasters in other people’s stories?”

She smiled faintly. “Because it’s easier to notice the noise than the wonder.”

You stared at her for a moment. You had no idea what that meant.

Then grumbled, “Okay, that was a good line. I’m mad about it.”

She laughed quiet and bright, like stars clinking together in a glass.

And somehow, sitting beside a woman you didn’t quite trust, in a city that never really slept, talking about someone who might as well be you… the day felt a little less heavy. You stretched your legs out in front of the bench, folding your arms and casting a glance at Blueberry Milk, her expression calm, composed, and infuriatingly flawless. Not a strand of that shimmering hair out of place, and not a single ghost alley scream on her record, either.

“Okay, serious question,” you said, tilting your head slightly in her direction. “How do you stay so pretty?”

That caught her attention. She looked at you fully now, one brow gently arched, like she couldn’t tell if this was leading somewhere absurd which, to be fair, it was.

“I mean it,” you continued. “It’s unfair. I’ve spent the entire day being emotionally obliterated, chased by ghosts, and dragged into a metaphysical identity crisis, and you haven’t even creased.”

She blinked slowly, lips twitching in what might’ve been the start of a smile. “Good lighting?”

You scoffed. “Lies. Ancient witchcraft. Forbidden glamor magic.”

“You flatter me.”

“Don’t get too excited,” you added with a smirk. “If I weren’t a committed person emotionally, not, like, in a ‘romantic escapade’ kind of way I might’ve followed you to the ends of Earthbread just to ask for your skincare routine.”

She let out a soft, genuine laugh this time.

“But I am committed,” you clarified quickly, hands up, grinning. “So you’re safe. No romantic rendezvous planned. Just mild admiration.”

“How generous,” she murmured, amused.

“And besides,” you continued with mock-seriousness, “people say weird stuff to me all the time. You wouldn’t believe what some of the scholars on campus have said. Someone once compared me to a doomed spell matrix. Not even in a sexy way.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying and failing to hide her laughter.

You waved a hand airily. “But I digress. All I’m saying is, if things ever don’t work out in my current extremely confusing and emotionally exhausting… whatever-it-is” you trailed off, then pointed at her dramatically, “I’ll come looking for you.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Purely platonic,” you said with a grin. “I’ll just show up like, ‘Hey, remember me? Emotional wreck from Phantom’s Alley? Still screaming. But like, cuter now.’”

She was laughing fully now soft and musical. “You’re relentless.”

You leaned back again, sighing. “I try. It’s part of the charm.”

She didn’t respond right away. But her smile lingered, and her eyes, sharp and quiet, watched you like she knew something you didn’t.

Which, honestly, would track.

But for now? You were content with the laughter, the fading glow of the Ghost City… and sitting beside someone who, even if she was still a mystery, made this strange day feel just a little more magical. You pushed yourself off the bench with a stretch and a breath, brushing phantom dust off your sleeves as if it were anything other than anxiety residue and post-alley adrenaline. The glow of the lanterns had begun to shift into deeper hues now twilight pooling into the corners of the city, but you weren’t quite ready to head back. Not yet.

You turned to Blueberry Milk with sudden determination.

“Alright. Ice cream.”

She looked at you, one brow arching. “Is that a command or a craving?”

“Both,” you said, already stepping forward. “You’ve seen the worst parts of me now. It’s only fair I balance it with something sweet. Besides there’s this pineapple flavor that’s to die for.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m not sure I can die.”

“Then it’s perfect,” you grinned. “You’re built for this flavor.”

Before she could argue, you reached out and took her hand. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just a warm, natural gesture, like grabbing a friend who might float away if you didn’t physically anchor them to the ground.

“We’re going,” you said, giving her a tug.

She let you lead her without resistance, her steps falling in line beside yours as you wound through the city streets again.

“I’m not accustomed to being dragged,” she murmured.

“You look like you’re not,” you shot back. “But everyone needs a good dragging now and then. Builds character.”

“And here I thought you were tired.”

“I am tired,” you replied cheerfully. “But ice cream overrides exhaustion. That’s science.”

She laughed again quiet, airy, like she hadn’t meant to. And maybe she hadn’t.

But still, she didn’t let go of your hand.

You tugged her down the winding street toward The Wisp & Whimsy, light bouncing off the cobblestones as if the city itself approved of your decision.

You didn’t know who she was. You didn’t know why she was here.

But just for now?

You were going to get ice cream with a stranger who looked like someone you shouldn’t trust, and you were going to pretend just a little longer that none of that mattered. The Wisp & Whimsy welcomed you back with the same ghostly charm as always the lanterns glowing a little dimmer now in the approaching dusk, the display case shimmering with enchantments that made each flavor glimmer like bottled memories. The familiar bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside, the chill in the air instantly curling around your senses with the soft sweetness of sugar and frost.

You made a beeline to the counter with purpose, pointing to the pineapple ice cream with the confidence of someone choosing destiny.

“One pineapple, please. Extra chunks.”

You reached for your coin pouch, already halfway pulling out the payment when…

“Put that away,” Blueberry Milk said smoothly, stepping in beside you, voice like soft starlight. “I’ve got it.”

“What? No this time I’m paying.” You frowned, hand tightening around your pouch.

But the shopkeeper was already accepting the ethereal, silvery coin she passed forward just like at the market. The exchange glimmered briefly in the air before vanishing into the register.

You stared at her, slack-jawed. “You’re too fast.”

“I told you,” she said with a soft smile, “you’re charming. That earns you ice cream.”

You grumbled under your breath, snatching the cup of pineapple ice cream with a defeated sigh. “You’re going to make me owe you so many favors.”

“That’s the idea,” she said, turning to the case. “I’ll take the honey lavender.”

You almost didn’t hear it at first.

But then your brain caught up.

Your eyes snapped up.

Honey lavender.

There was a pause, a glitch in your heart’s rhythm as her words echoed over themselves, overlaying with a voice in your memory.

“…Honey lavender,” he had said that night. Soft. Unwilling at first. But truthful, as always.

The others had reacted with delight, but you had filed it away with care.

And now here she was.

Ordering the same thing.

You stared at her.

Her fingers delicately accepted the cone, her eyes flicking over the display like it was any other choice, like she hadn’t just picked the one flavor that shouldn’t have meant anything… but did.

You swallowed the cool weight of your pineapple ice cream forgotten in your hand.

It couldn’t be.

Right?

Still, your voice came out quieter than you meant it to when you said, “Interesting choice.”

She glanced at you, brow lifted.

“Delicate,” you added, echoing Earl Grey’s words without thinking. “Fitting.”

She smiled.

You didn’t ask.

You weren’t sure you wanted the answer. You tried to shake the thoughts off really, you did.

It was just a flavor. Just a flavor. Plenty of people liked honey lavender. It was floral, a little sweet, a little odd. It didn’t have to mean anything. Just because the Sage of Truth had said it once, in passing, in a moment that had somehow branded itself onto your memory like an enchanted bookmark.

You took a big bite of your pineapple ice cream to distract yourself. The cold jolted through your senses, sharp and tangy.

“Okay,” you said finally, pointing your spoon toward her cone like you were accusing it of sorcery. “What is the hype with honey lavender?”

Blueberry Milk turned her head toward you slowly, as if mildly amused that you still sounded suspicious.

“I mean it,” you continued, eyes narrowing. “It smells like bath soap and tastes like a fancy candle. And yet, everyone who eats it acts like it’s the height of frozen sophistication.”

She looked at her cone for a long moment, then took a deliberate bite.

You watched, curious. Maybe a little bitter.

She chewed slowly, then tilted her head and said, “It tastes like restraint.”

You blinked. “…What?”

Her gaze met yours again, cool and calm. “It’s not overly sweet. It doesn’t demand attention. But it lingers.” She took another bite. “It doesn’t overwhelm. But it stays.”

You stared at her, spoon halfway to your mouth. “You talk about ice cream like it’s a metaphor for a person.”

She gave you a tiny smile. “Isn’t everything?”

You groaned dramatically. “Why does everyone I know speak in riddles? Can’t someone just say ‘it tastes good’ like a normal person?”

“But that wouldn’t be nearly as interesting,” she replied, perfectly composed, licking her cone like she hadn’t just implied deep emotional philosophy in a frozen dessert.

You muttered something unintelligible into your pineapple scoop and took another aggressive bite.

Still when she wasn’t looking, your eyes drifted back to her again.

Same taste. Same quiet confidence.

Same hair that caught the light like a sky full of stars.

You looked down at your spoon.

“…Still think pineapple’s better,” you mumbled. You tapped your spoon against your cup thoughtfully, then looked over at her with a sly glint in your eye.

“Alright,” you said. “We’re doing a taste test.”

Blueberry Milk blinked. “A what?”

You gestured between your pineapple and her honey lavender. “Swap. One bite each. It’s only fair. I need to know if yours is actually worth the poetic speech you just gave, and you” you raised your eyebrows at her, “you need to experience the magnificence that is pineapple with actual chunks.”

She gave a soft, humored sound neither agreeing nor refusing but didn’t stop you as you offered her a spoonful of yours.

You held it out like it was a rare delicacy. “Here. Bask in the glory.”

She accepted the bite with more grace than the moment deserved.

She blinked. “Surprisingly bright.”

“I know, right?” you beamed. “It’s like eating joy. But the tropical kind. Not the annoying kind.”

She smiled. “I didn’t realize joy had categories.”

“It absolutely does,” you said, then motioned to her. “Alright. My turn.”

She extended her cone toward you, the pale lavender hue practically glowing under the lantern light. You took a careful bite.

Immediately, the flavor coated your tongue delicate, yes, but so strange. Soft floral sweetness, subtle like dusk. 

You chewed slowly, blinking down at the cone in mild betrayal.

“…Okay, that’s annoying,” you mumbled.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because now I see why he-I mean, why some people like it,” you said quickly, covering the near slip with another bite of pineapple. “Ugh. It’s all moody and elegant. No wonder it’s a fan favorite.”

She regarded you with that same unreadable look, one corner of her mouth twitching upward.

You nudged her lightly with your elbow. “Fine. I’ll admit it. Your candle-flavored ice cream is good. Happy?”

“Very.”

You huffed. “You’re welcome, by the way. I bring culinary balance to your brooding dessert profile.”

She let out a small laugh, light and fleeting, like mist catching light.

You grinned at her.

Blueberry Milk took another delicate bite of her honey lavender cone, then looked at you from the corner of her eye. There was a pause long enough for you to brace for another one of her thoughtful riddles but instead, she said simply:

“You’re quite charming when you’re not screaming in haunted alleys.”

You nearly choked on your pineapple.

“Excuse me?” you coughed, wide-eyed. “Was that a compliment? From you?”

She gave a small, knowing smile. “You make good company.”

You placed a hand dramatically over your chest. “You know, you’re really playing a dangerous game right now. I’m emotionally unstable, and I’ve had sugar.”

She tilted her head, clearly amused. “Oh?”

“I mean it,” you said, tossing your now-empty spoon into your cup. “Keep talking like that and next thing you know, we’re running away together. Cottage in the hills. Changing our names.”

Her eyes sparkled faintly. “You’d abandon everything that easily?”

“Only if you promise I never have to take a final exam again.”

She chuckled. “A tempting offer.”

“We’ll keep goats,” you continued, warming up to the fantasy now. “And I’ll make pineapple jam. You can tend to lavender. We’ll grow weird vegetables and never explain ourselves to the neighbors.”

“And what about your current commitments?”

“Oh, they’d find me eventually,” you said with a sigh. “He’d show up at the cottage like, ‘You’ve missed three sessions, and your magical fundamentals are declining.’ And then I’d have to run again.”

Blueberry Milk raised a brow. “Relentless, isn’t he?”

“The worst,” you deadpanned. Then, after a pause, “…But also kind of the best.”

She looked at you for a long moment. You weren’t sure what she was thinking.

But her voice was gentle when she said, “If you ever do run away… let me know.”

You gave her a crooked smile. “You’d really come with me?”

She nodded, eyes gleaming. “Only if there’s pineapple jam.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

You clinked your empty cups together like a toast, smiling as the lights of the Ghost City flickered around you sweet and strange and unforgettable. You leaned back against the bench, your pineapple cup now reduced to the sticky remains of your earlier triumph, and tilted your head toward her with a sly grin.

“Well,” you said casually, “if we’re already planning the cottage, the goats, and the jam empire… I think it’s only logical that we start ring shopping.”

Blueberry Milk blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and faint amusement. “Ring shopping?”

You nodded solemnly, like this was a serious business transaction and not the product of sleep deprivation, ice cream, and questionable decision-making.

“Obviously,” you said, waving a hand as if to say this is just common sense. “We’re clearly on the same wavelength. Our flavors are compatible. You haven’t run away from me screaming yet which puts you above ninety percent of the people I’ve met. We should get married. Today. Ghost City elopement.”

There was a silence. Then:

“…You are absolutely ridiculous,” she said, lips curving into a faint, startled smile.

You beamed. “You’re not saying no, though.”

She gave you a sideways glance, the kind that shimmered with half-hidden laughter. “Would it be a lavender ring or pineapple-themed?”

“Oh, easy,” you said. “One for each of us. Yours would be some elegant honey-lavender metal with ancient ghost inscriptions. Mine would be a pineapple that probably gets sticky in the heat.”

“That sounds deeply impractical.”

“Which is why you’re marrying me,” you said proudly. “Balance. Chaos and refinement.”

Blueberry Milk let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You are truly unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re alarmingly chill about spontaneous weddings,” you said. “Which makes you dangerous.”

She smiled. “Then maybe we are well-matched.”

You blinked at her, taken off guard by the way she said it like it meant more than it should have.

You cleared your throat, suddenly flustered.

“Well,” you muttered, standing up with mock urgency, “we’ve got rings to find and a cottage to claim. Better get moving.”

She rose beside you, her movements calm, graceful.

“I hear there’s a ghost who forges rings near the Market of Forgotten Goods,” she said idly.

You stared at her.

“…You’re not kidding, are you?”

She only smiled. “Come on, fiancé. "

“Oh no. I’ve created a monster.” But still… You followed her down the lantern-lit street. You shook your head, laughing under your breath as Blueberry Milk walked ahead calm, composed, and entirely too graceful for someone who had just agreed to a fake wedding in the middle of the Ghost City.

A/N by the way guys I also had to reread my story to write this chapter LOL I didn't forget but I also was like hm...it might be a good idea to refresh my memory.

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

The coldness of the Spire of Shadows spiraled down, illusions looking down on you in a cascade of blue, white, and gold tapestries. The cold, milky white pillars were tall, endless, breaking through the boundaries of the sky itself.

The tiles were empty, soulless, devoid of the knowledge that used to flow endlessly all throughout like the slowed rivers.

Looking up, the sky was deprived of the soft starlight, reflections casting back down, cardboard clouds drifting through endlessly without any purpose. Only at the very top of the spire lay a symbol of the very star of the show himself, eyes of many shades of blue casting below.

The perfect stage to act to his audience, he would say.

How could it not be? Everything was orchestrated by his design, the stage front devoured in midnight blues to draw all eyes to the actors on stage.

It was what he had left. What he had resigned himself to.

A life where he had no one left but himself.

Long gone were the days of lectures, the guidance of truth to the lost, and the overflowing knowledge his very students, and even himself, used to embody.

“Oh, shush”, he’d tell the audience. In his eyes, it was merely a pathetic tale meant to be hidden away in the deepest depths of the library, if there were even still traces of it left.

For his title as Fount of Knowledge was just a thing of the past now. A title he still has, but has been twisted as something forced upon him.

Time flowed endlessly here, no regards to anything but itself. Space had no limits nor confinements, enveloping the Spire in a void. Life was merely a thing meant to renew the fleeting. Death was the end of it all, whether you were prepared to face it or not. All orchestrated, he would say.

Time was intertwined. “Here, the future of the past and the present coexist.”

He wasn’t alone, he would say. He had those two cookies spread lies and deceit all throughout, the most scandalous of rumors sprouting from a mere seed of doubt.

This time, however, he had sent them out on their own free will, whether that be to infiltrate the libraries once more, broadcast the latest gossip, or cause mischief like an untamed child, anything.

For he already had the show set for him. Only an aspiring and memorable star such as him would truly know when to draw the curtains, to set the lights on himself, or to humor the audience a little for engagement.

Just him. Anyone from before has only dragged him down.

While he was still holding the very element and truth of knowledge itself, the Spire of All Knowledge was the embodiment of authority, yet at the same time, a welcoming place for scholars who were willing to take time to listen and read through.

He had stepped up from his position as Sage in the Blueberry Yogurt Academy, accompanied by the one he cared for the most, you. A scholar who had risen to the ranks, an opportunity only reserved for what he believed to be an “ever growing mind”, alongside your dearest friends to keep them company.

Constellations filled the sky, the starlight aligning with the moon just right, casting rays of moonlit onto weary scholars looking for respite from the high standards studying in the Spire of All Knowledge itself.

The Spire stood tall amongst the gloomy and dark trees, only using a mostly blueberry blue and milky white color scheme lining the pristine walls as a sign of purity, but also to make itself known.

Large books and bookshelves filled the endless walls, allowing anyone to bask in the information that defied all logic, transcending the possibilities of what was known and what could be done.

On some days, he’d rest beside you, not falling asleep, but rather, allowing himself a moment of respite, savoring the moment as the moonlight enclosed on the two of them, in which time slowed down for them itself.

And yet, those above would do anything but give him mercy.

He’d hum a tune he used to play on his harpsichord while he was alone absentmindedly without realizing it, a tune that filled his mind pleasantly despite the high standards expected of him.

Scrolls hung down from the walls, even more information for those willing to push their limits. Quotes of perpetual time and immortality linked with life.

He mentioned them occasionally during his times where he stood in front of the podium, thinking nothing of it, hoping that his own experience as a cookie unaffected by time would elevate his speech, bringing more gravity to the situation.

Speeches in which even the brightest minds he taught grew tired and miserable of.

Within those achingly long moments, they passed by in a blur. A report of several scholars falling indefinitely asleep in the unused corner of the empty hall, where scholars seldom visited. Filed under the emotional influence of magic. Tested an immortality incantation on themselves as their last hope, despite their deteriorating mindsets.

One of those mindsets being one he used to help grow and learn, the cookie that he… loved the most. Leaving room not just for knowledge, but for time spent with him. The fleeting moments he thought he would get to make more of. Meaningful, memorable.

Indefinitely. No treatment provided. Only healing charms and the passing of time could answer.

The only thing left from you was your worn yet timeless satchel, still carrying spare parchment, and a book smuggled all the way from the forbidden archives of the Academy, one with the intent to tamper one’s own life.

It had been shared within the four of you. A hope to a better and endless future, a future none of them were ready for. A future he could’ve prevented.

His own thoughts could only echo repeatedly in his mind, the shadows slowly enveloping the office he stayed in, despite the warm lamps that were supposed to illuminate the atmosphere.

If only you had been there. If only you had found the book earlier and lectured– not reprimanded them. If only you had the wards enabled.. If only you visited them more instead of pushing them away for duty– If only you reminded them that you were happy even if fleeting.

If only…

“If only I had more time.”

…

His eyes could only reflect the emotional conflict he wished to speak out in desperation, his quill closing in on the blank on the blurry parchment that awaited his signature.

The signature with his title as “Fount of Knowledge”... nothing more than what “they” would’ve considered him.

And before he knew it, the walls, covered with stained glass of the purest kind, began closing in on him day after day after day.

Seconds passed by. Minutes passed by. Hours, days, weeks, even. It was all but a memory drifting through the endless sea, a memory he tried to push away, but kept drifting back to the island. A memory nothing but a burden, much less he had realized the same with his knowledge, much less the one truth he tried to protect and love with all he could.

And yet, he had failed.

Within the once serene atmosphere, even as time flowed endlessly, underneath all his grand titles he had earned himself, he knew one thing.

Without truth, there was no love. And without love, there was no truth.

And yet, he abandoned the same truth that he coveted. The same truth that failed to protect them.

…

The Fount of Knowledge was too far gone.

No one wanted to hear the truth everyone knew. The truth that brought more harm and misery than enlightenment and good news. The truth that was irreversible, irrevocable, irreconcilable, irrelevant, irrational to most. The knowledge that was only a burden to carry.

Forbidden truths were the most interesting to scholars. No longer the wise words of encouragement he sought to bring out.

And so, as the whispers of his own Light of Knowledge collapsed on him in pure despair, he changed. With no more light to follow, as he rested his mind in his other-realm, he became a beacon of false hope.

Lies trailing him around, white lies, he told himself at first.

He stood in front of the podium with a new sense of vigor, hair slightly disheveled, the glow following him dimming. Though, no one noticed. The only thing people were interested in were the hopeful lies he spun. Though lied conflict, he ensured to tell a tale where everyone was not just happy, but content.

The life… he had resigned himself to.

He grew more cynical, in a way, festering fiercely onto the apple that took him away from what he once had. And oh, he had no regrets. He was an illusion within of itself, mesmerizing the audience through simple charms, what more could he ask?

In his mind, his imprisonment was, within of itself, a fleeting moment, but a torturous one that dragged on for far longer than he would’ve wished.

Silver forks rained down from the sky, landing right in front of him before he even got a second to react. Chains then began circling him, the cold metal bound and unforgiving.

Within the small space he was given, even for only a short while, to glance up, he could see Their Creators looking down on them, a sorrowful, melancholic, yet final look on their faces.

The Creators that handed him his Soul Jam, the very essence of his being.

And that too, was being taken away.

The rest left as a tale to stay hidden in only the most secure, magic bounded archives.

The halls were quiet, cold, uninviting for everyone except those who resided in the Spire itself. Many doors sat in order, ones that lead to different kinds of rooms, but still insufficient for someone as highly worthy of praise as Shadow Milk Cookie himself.

The Spire was nothing short of grand and escalated, but the gardens that rooted deep outside were filled with a longing indescribable. The dark trees were uninviting and unforgiving, guarding the entrance of the Spire.

The off-white Milkcrown flowers were pure, yet sorrowful and desolate. They were said, by rumor, to have grown and spread into clusters wherever tears fell. Innocent cookies who were burdened by the truth, unknowingly leaving trails of pure white misery to grow outside the Spire. Gentlest of its kind, yet downhearted.

And the Spire of Shadows had a plethora of them.

A plethora that he, despite knowing the truth and their intent of creation, vehemently disagreed to removing or harming them in any way.

Before, in the distant past, he had suggested planting them with you. After all, their milk-crowned shaped petals were the perfect to plant around the Academy, their purity and shape reflecting the values they upheld.

Those days were long gone.

In the somber harmony of the flowers, those memories grew in sorrow too.

He only remembered planting the same flowers in remembrance. In grief. Then he left them alone.

Then again, he seldom visited the memories he deemed irrelevant.

That was, until he floated past a particularly weary door. The entrance wasn’t as grand as his other favorite rooms, as if he already avoided it out of habit.

While it showed signs of age, the entrance itself wasn’t uninviting. If anything, it was welcoming, and lingered a faint floral scent.

Suddenly, a faint anger began to simmer within his dough. Memories like these had no place in the Spire, why should they?

He would eradicate every last bit until it was content.

With much more force and his staff in hand, he turned the door and–

…

Everything was… still as it used to be.

He gave the room to her once, an old office in the Spire of All Knowledge from a great Scholar who resigned due to age.

Quietly, he remembered organizing shelves and collecting old notes and scrolls, while you added your own books and your own flourish to the area.

It was… uniquely yours.

He remembered standing there, glancing around the room they worked on together. A space just for them.

The desk was of sturdy yet stylish wood, picture frames of her favorite moments and memories across the room.

Flowers adorned the room, cared for tenderly in the sun and watered with love. He even planted one of them for memories.

Across the shelves and other tables, there laid little trinkets gifted and earned through tender memories, cleaned every once in a while to prevent dust collection.

Some knew the Fount of Knowledge as an enigmatic yet mysterious person, vanishing the second he was done with lectures, presumably to do more work.

However, when notes and documents spared him for once, he used to enjoy visiting you for lunch or small chatter, plans to meet up outside the Spire that unfortunately weren’t successful often due to his rankings and status. There wasn’t enough time for them.

Not.. enough time.

The room in its current state was a pitiful reminder of what it once was.

Dust and a few cobwebs lined the room, The floor threatening to collapse onto the level below when he even dared to take a regular step.

The trinkets, charms, photos, or anything else had been cleared.

A large space was made room for in the center, enough to fit a casting circle.

The table was occupied by hastily scrambled notes and details of tests.

The moment he floated over, he glanced over the words on the scrolls.

The first pages were innocent notes, plans for potential spells, incantations to remember, and steps on preparing those same spells.

However, as he skipped to the last few pages, the ones most recent on top, they changed entirely.

The writing was uneven, almost unreadable as if studying the very essence of your life would be the only thing to keep you alive.

The words curled into dangerous territory. Forbidden magic with irreversible consequences. Sigils of preservation tactics for simple things like to use on your plants when you were busy were planned to use permanently on your own life.

But even he knew deep down, with his distant and closed off walls, that a forever for a simple cookie like you was unreachable.

There laid your handwriting on each page, notes following the diagrams that were horrifying to an innocent cookie who was content with their life.

And yet, you persisted.

He gripped his staff tightly.

And on the very last page, read a solemn letter.

“My Fount,”

“If you have read this, it means I have done it.”

“I know not how many days and nights have passed ever since I began researching immortality,” you began, hopeful.

“I deeply apologize for hiding the truth from you. This was my own burden.” you stated, as if already resigning to fate.

“Today will be the day I test the spell I’ve crafted so carefully over the past few months. If I succeed, I can free you of the pain of watching all you know go before you. If I don’t…”

The last words had left with excess ink, as if you weren’t sure of what to write.

“I hope you learn to treasure what we had. Loathe me, resent me, whatever you wish. But know that I enjoyed every moment I had in my fleeting life, even if it seemed meaningless to you.”

“I don’t want you to carry the burden of living with the knowledge and the truth that I passed away because of my desire to stay with you. I did this to myself.”

“This is my last hope. I can’t hope for time to spare me just from my will.”

He didn’t need to read the rest.

All his anger boiled to the surface, as he held the pages and several scrolls firmly at the top, ready to tear them.

Then, he stopped.

Time and time again, he knew that he wouldn’t forgive himself for destroying the pieces of research you had made in a desire to stay with him, even if he resented the thought.

You would forgive him, of course you would, he thought bitterly.

But why should he to himself?

He dropped the papers harshly onto the desk with a yell, shaking with unreleased fury that slowly slowed…

Into misery.

This was all he had left. Such a cookie who had warmed him up, and changed his life forever, was reduced to nothing but pieces of parchment and test results and spells of a desperate person just wanting more time.

He floated back to the door, and took in the room with all its gone glory.

He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it.

He turned the knob carefully, hinges screeching, and took in the atmosphere of the Spire of.

During the times when the Spire still embedded knowledge, by now, he would’ve greeted you goodbye with a smile.

The only thing he was saying goodbye to was a past that he never got to truly enjoy, the fear of mortality grasping him every living moment.

Once more, in a way, he embraced deceit.

The sweet lie that was of his past.

You never existed, he would tell himself.

He would leave the room alone, just as he did before. And yet…

There lingered a caring voice in his head. Not sickeningly sweet before, but it was now. A tone filled with sympathy, that he now believed was just a mock of itself.

“You’ll forgive yourself, right?”

Not with the knowledge that he used to embody.

Not with the truth that everyone turned away from.

Not with his powers that failed every single time when he needed them most.

In the same way…

Maybe with the knowledge that held all his sweetest memories dear.

Maybe with the truth that you loved him for.

Maybe with his powers that weren’t perfect, but were used in simpler ways that you enjoyed seeing.

If he had changed, perhaps he could embrace you once more.

Not in the current lifetime, but with the spirit that roamed around the Spire endlessly, waiting for a certain someone who kept avoiding them.

And you would always be there, waiting, despite the endless hold of time.

wow this story is long overdue...

you can tell i locked in on one part lol

admittedly i changed the plot like 4 times i hate writing dialogue

i can pour all my soul into descriptions then blank out at dialogue

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You awoke slowly, as though surfacing from the depths of an endless ocean. Your mind, still submerged in the haze of unconsciousness, struggled to climb back toward clarity. The boundary between dreaming and waking remained indistinct, like fog drifting across the border of two worlds.

It wasn’t just your thoughts that lagged behind, your body, too, felt strange and distant. Limbs heavy. Muscles unresponsive. Your bones felt hollow, as though someone had carved you out and left you empty beneath your skin. The world around you existed only in fragments, shadow, scent, sound, none of it quite real yet.

Then, a sharp pain. Sudden and jarring.

It bloomed behind your eyes like a violent sunrise, radiating through your skull with a slow, pulsing ache. You winced. The sound of your own breath startled you, dry and faint, like wind scraping over stone.

You were lying down. That much was clear. And the ground beneath you wasn’t stone or wood. It was soft. Cool. Alive.

The tickle of grass brushed your bare arms. Stray blades curled along your jaw and throat, and somewhere close by, you could hear the faint chirring of insects, rhythmic and distant, like a lullaby played in reverse.

You didn’t know where you were.

You didn’t know how you’d gotten there.

But you knew, somehow, that this was not a place you recognized.

The air was unusually clean. Not sterile or cold, but clear, vibrant, charged with something unknown. Every breath tasted of wildflowers and moss, with undertones of damp bark and sun-warmed leaves. You could hear water trickling somewhere not far off, the babble of a hidden stream winding its way through unseen roots. Above you, the trees swayed gently, casting a dance of gold-dappled shadows over your face.

Then, a touch.

Featherlight.

Startling.

Something, someone, was brushing your face. A single finger traced a line across your temple, then swept a strand of hair away from your eyes. The movement was hesitant, careful, like one might approach a wounded bird or a fading flame.

You didn’t recoil. Not yet. It was too soft to fear.

Then you felt two fingers rest just above your pulse, pressing delicately into your neck. Checking. Measuring.

A heartbeat. Still steady. Still yours.

That single act, so quiet, so full of unspoken concern, brought your awareness rushing back.

Your eyes fluttered open. Immediately, light flooded your vision, searing and golden. You squinted, blinking rapidly, and slowly, shapes began to emerge from the haze. Trees, tall and ancient, their trunks wrapped in vines and lichen. Leaves stirred high above in a canopy so thick it let only fragmented sunlight through, casting the forest floor in a glowing mosaic of green and gold.

And then, you saw him.

At first, he was a blur. A silhouette leaning over you, haloed in sunlight. His form shimmered with the kind of brightness you didn’t often associate with people. Ethereal. Blinding.

But as your vision sharpened, the details resolved.

He was… beautiful. There was no other word for it.

His hair was pale blond, the kind of gold that seemed kissed by morning light, soft, subtle, and luminous. It reached the nape of his neck in loose, feathered strands, catching the sun like fine silk threads. His lashes, long and delicate, framed eyes set against skin that was far from pale, warm, rich, and full of life, glowing with a quiet strength that needed no light to shine.

He wore a long robe the color of the wool of a sheep, flowing and weightless, as though spun from silk and wind. Intricate embroidery in soft beige traced patterns along the collar and cuffs, elegant, curling lines shaped like frost or vanilla blossoms. The fabric moved with him, rippling faintly in the breeze, though there was no wind near enough to stir it.

But what held your gaze, what made you forget your condition entirely, was the jewel.

A large gemstone rested above his heart, cradled within the fabric of his robes as though it had grown there, fused into his very being. Deep midnight blue. The kind of blue that lives in the sky just before dawn or in the ocean’s deepest trench. It pulsed faintly, as if alive, catching the scattered light and reflecting it in slow, otherworldly gleams. Looking at it stirred something strange in your chest. Maybe awe, fear, recognition, but you couldn’t place why.

And then you realized, his hand was still on your cheek.

You recoiled instinctively, your back bumping against something hard and rough behind you, the bark of a tree, wide and ancient, gnarled with time. The jolt startled a flock of birds from a nearby branch. They erupted into the air in a flurry of wings and startled cries, vanishing into the canopy.

The man’s eyes, mismatched, soft, concerned, widened slightly at your reaction. But he didn’t move away in fear. There was no trace of offense in his expression. Only quiet understanding, tinged with something that looked almost like… regret.

He gently drew his hand back and placed it over his heart, right atop the glowing gem. His head dipped slightly, and his lashes lowered in an almost reverent motion, like a silent apology.

And then he spoke.

His voice was soft and smooth, carrying the warmth of honey and the softness of morning fog.

“Witches above… I feared I was too late.”

His lips curved into a gentle, cautious smile.

“But no… you’re here. You’re safe.”

You parted your lips, your throat dry and aching, but before you could ask the thousand questions tangled in your mind, his gaze shifted suddenly.

His expression darkened, not in anger, but alarm.

He was looking at your hand.

You followed his gaze, and froze.

A long, dark cut carved across your palm. Not fresh, but still angry looking. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled, a lot. The blood had dried into rough, cracked lines that trailed down your wrist and pooled in rusty patches along your forearm, stopping just above the elbow. It looked far worse than it probably was, but that didn’t matter now.

You didn’t remember the injury. You didn’t remember anything.

Before you could move, he reached for your hand again. This time, his movements were quicker, but still impossibly gentle. He took your hand in both of his, cradling it as if it were made of glass.

He said nothing at first.

Just looked. Examined.

His brows knit together, and a shadow passed through his mismatched eyes. Then, after a long breath, he murmured,

“It’s not as deep as I feared, thankfully. But…”

He hesitated, his thumb grazing just below the wound, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your skin tingle.

“You’ve been lying here too long. Exposure. Wild air. Untended cuts… they can turn.”

He looked at you again, brow furrowing with gentler worry.

“I fear that I might need to bring you to the kingdom. It will be properly treated there.”

The word snagged in your mind like a thorn.

Kingdom?

You sat up straighter, ignoring the dull throb in your temple, and looked him directly in the eye for the first time.

“The kingdom…?” you echoed, unsure if you meant to question him or yourself.

A soft flush rose on his cheeks, delicate, barely-there, and he chuckled quietly, a sound like snow falling over silk.

“Ah… forgive me. That must sound strange to you, how rude of me...”

He dipped his head slightly, brushing a golden strand behind his ear.

“I forgot how disorienting waking can be, even for I.”

Then, he straightened, meeting your gaze with gentle resolve.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Pure Vanilla, one of the main healer in the Kingdom..”

He offered a slight bow, one hand pressed respectfully to his chest, just above the gem.

“But truly, do not trouble yourself with formalities. Just call me Pure Vanilla, please. Nothing more.”

You stared at him, something distant stirring in your chest.

Pure Vanilla…

The name rippled through your thoughts like an echo. Familiar. Like a memory lost in fog. Like a word spoken to you in a dream, just before waking.

His voice continued, calm and melodic, but your mind was slipping again, not into unconsciousness, but into thought. Confusion. Wonder. Fear.

You didn’t know him.

You didn’t know this place.

The forest stretched endlessly around you. The trees were taller than any you remembered seeing before, ancient things, with bark the color of ash and roots that coiled above the soil like sleeping serpents. The light that filtered through the canopy was strange, gold, but tinted faintly lavender, as if the sky itself had been painted in twilight.

There were no familiar sounds. No roads. No signs of cities. No proof that the world you knew even existed anymore.

And yet… his touch was real. His presence was real.

His thumb, even now, traced soft circles over the back of your hand, slow and steady, like a silent promise. You’re not alone.

Then he asked, again, his voice lower now, more intimate.

“So please… Would you allow me to accompany you to the kingdom?”

The forest held its breath.

And so did you.

Pure Vanilla’s question hung in the air like a fragile thread of silk, delicate and shimmering, suspended between two worlds, the known and the unknown.

The forest around you remained still, as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for your reply.

Your eyes searched his, still kind, still patient. There was a softness to him that was almost unreal, like something out of a story. He looked like the embodiment of peace, of safety. There was no arrogance in his gaze, no coldness in the line of his jaw. If anything, he looked ancient. As though he had carried something heavy for a very long time. And yet, beneath that weariness, there was kindness, a quiet, unwavering light that drew you in like a hearth fire on a winter night.

His golden lashes cast shadows beneath eyes that still watched you gently, searching for fear, for trust, for something real.

You dropped your gaze.

The grass beneath you shimmered with dew, though the sun now sat high above the canopy, casting columns of warm light between the trees. Petals drifted lazily through the air, carried on an unseen wind, their colors pale and strange, whites tinged with blue, lilacs fading into silver. You weren’t sure whether they had fallen from flowers or if they simply existed here, as part of this place’s quiet enchantment.

A strange calm had settled over your body, but your thoughts remained tangled.

You remembered nothing.

Not your name.

Not your past.

Not how you’d come to this forest, or what had caused the wound in your hand.

And yet, here he was, this stranger, this king, speaking your language, treating you not as an intruder, not as a threat, but as someone he cared.

Why?

How had he known you were here? Was it just one of fate tricks?

Your heart gave an uneasy flutter.

What if this was all a trap?

What if he wasn’t who he claimed to be?

But then, why the gentle touch? Why the softness in his eyes when you recoiled? Why the look of relief when he saw that you were alive?

He said his name was Pure Vanilla.

He said he´s a healer in a kingdom.

A kingdom you’d never heard of.

A kingdom you might have once known perhaps.

He reached out again, this time more carefully, offering you his hand, palm upward, open, unthreatening.

A simple gesture.

But the moment was not simple at all.

His voice, when he spoke next, was quiet. Not demanding. Not urgent.

Just… hopeful.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” he murmured, as though he could feel your hesitation as clearly as the wind.

“But I could never leave someone there. Not here. Not like this.”

His fingers remained outstretched, motionless, suspended in the space between you.

And now…

The trees whisper around you.

The petals swirl.

And time waits for your answer, Reader!

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Bonus ; First illustration interaction! Just a doodle, the next one will be better, hopefully..

Thanks for reading this first chapter, don’t forget to like!!🫶🍊

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