The ocean roared in his ears, its waves clawing at the shore before receding in a reluctant, sibilant cry. Each one broke with a sigh—soft, yet laced with the echo of a love that had fought to outlast eternity itself.
But the shore, a stoic cliff of ages, remained impassive, ignoring the heartbroken pleas of the tide. It had seen countless storms. Felt innumerable waves. And so, it knew this, too, shall pass.
Rhys wondered, with a cold hollow ache, why he hadn't possessed the same resolve as the stone.
If he had kept his heart as impassive as this cliff, would the vulnerability gnawing into his chest have still condemned him?
The answer came as the next wave surged, this time tearing a ragged piece of cliff, dragging sand and soil back into its churning depths.
Just like a part of him he thought had petrified millennia ago was ripped raw by her.
Ayla.
She had been a wave of that magnitude. Not a fleeting breaker, but a persistent, relentless tide that came once in a lifetime, claiming a part of its shore for its own.
He remembered the night they met. Right here, on this very stretch of sand. The storm had howled a warning then, and the moon, a silver bone in the velvet sky, had seemed to scream for him to wake from his trance.
A blonde idiot stood at the cliff's edge, her arms outstretched and praying for—what? "Hey gods, stop the peeing from the sky, drop a boyfriend for me."
And guess what? He happened to be there at the exact time she opened her amber eyes.
He still remembered those brilliant pupils, shimmering in the darkness, bright enough to light the entire universe.
He still remembered how the surroundings faded into nothingness, leaving his vulnerable self like an open book for her to read.
When the emotions he had buried under mountains of time threatened to shatter the gates of his heart, he had simply lowered the drawbridge and let them flood in.
And that decision was never a mistake. Not for a single, precious moment.
Rhys curled his lips. The memory was a phantom limb. An ache for a time so vibrant it made the present feel like a monochrome photograph.
For a millennium, the world had been a silent film playing out before him—except for the part where she came in, pulling him in as a main character.
He was the detached observer, the historian cataloging the follies of mortals. But when she came, the sound turned on.
Without noticing, he wasn't a mere observer anymore.
He discovered laughter was not just a mechanical contraction of muscles, but a warmth that could spread from his chest to his fingertips.
He learned to love. He learned to care. Above all, he learned to live.
She was his mentor, she was his companion. Before he could stop it, she became his world.
The rusty and foreign humanity buried deep in his soul for a millennium gained momentum, like someone had sprinkled oil over it.
Their life together became his new epoch—the 'Age of Ayla.'
He, who had no need for shelter, built a home for them overlooking this very shore. He wanted the feel of the wood, the grit of the mortar, the satisfaction of creating something not for survival, but for love.
He, who had no need for sustenance, learned to cook. He memorised her favourite dishes, the subtle spices she preferred, the way she'd close her eyes in bliss at the first bite of a perfectly seared steak or a rich, dark chocolate torte.
These were the rituals that grounded him, that made him feel not like an immortal passing through, but a man who belonged.
Then came the children.
He had witnessed the rise and fall of dynasties, the growth and destruction of technologies, yet nothing prepared him for the fierce, primal terror and love of holding his own daughter for the first time.
This tiny, screaming, fragile creature held more power over him than any great emperor he had ever known.
He became a father, a role he played with the full depth of his millennia of patience.
He never tired of the endless questions, the persistent cries to eat the moon, the scraped knees, the bedtime stories.
He would weave tales of forgotten ages, framing them as fantasy, and watch mesmerised as his own lost history became the stuff of his daughter's dreams.
He watched her grow into a woman even the moon dared not compare itself to. He recalled how jealous he was when a man came into her life.
Everything was going fine.
He was no longer just a singular point in time but the centre of a constellation, a living nexus of a family that was his and his alone.
Except it wasn't.
His love blinded him to the streaks of grey sneaking into Ayla's cascading blonde hair. He always thought he and Ayla had grown old together—or rather, she grew old while he remained frozen in time.
As her steps slowed, he matched her pace, his arm a constant, steady support. They had a century together.
A century!
For her, that was a lifetime. For him, a single stolen breath that became a lifetime.
In her final days, as she lay in their bed, the sound of the waves a constant lullaby, his heart melted, froze, and then shattered into pieces.
He recalled how her withered hands held his, with the same smile she had worn her entire life, as she muttered, "You were my world, Rhys."
"You," he had replied, his voice breaking, "were my universe."
Without even hearing it, her once vibrant self withered completely in the merciless grip of time.
That day, the universe became cold and empty.