Chapter 135: THE LAST CEREMONY

We returned to the Memory Garden at dusk.

Not because we needed closure—

but because we wanted acknowledgment.

There is a difference, I’ve learned. Closure implies something unfinished, something still aching for resolution. What we carried no longer demanded that. The pain had already softened, reshaped by time and understanding. But acknowledgment—that was different. It was about seeing what had been, without flinching. About standing in the presence of our own history and saying, Yes. This happened. And we are still here.

The garden greeted us the way it always did—quietly, without judgment.

The flowers were in full bloom now, wild and unapologetic, no longer arranged with care or intention. They had grown the way living things do when given freedom: uneven, vibrant, resilient. Colors bled into one another—yellows too bright to ignore, purples deep and grounding, greens thick with life.

This garden had once been symbolic.

Now, it was simply alive.

Elena lay on a blanket beneath the fading light, her small hands opening and closing as she watched the world above her. Leaves swayed. Shadows stretched. She tracked movement she didn’t yet understand, her expression calm, curious, unafraid.

I watched her for a long moment.

She would never know the garden as anything but a place of beauty. She would never associate it with grief or fear or the weight of decisions that once pressed heavy on our chests.

That felt like a victory greater than any we’d earned before.

Each of us brought something small.

Not because it was required.

Not because it was planned.

But because it felt right to offer a piece of ourselves—not to the past, but to the ground that had carried us forward.

Aria stepped forward first.

She hesitated only briefly before kneeling, fingers brushing the soil with care. The ribbon in her hands was faded now, its edges frayed from years of being tied and untied, worn through moments she was probably too young to fully remember.

She laid it gently among the flowers.

“For bravery,” she said simply.

No embellishment. No explanation.

And I realized that bravery, to her, didn’t mean fighting or standing tall in the face of danger. It meant continuing. It meant waking up and choosing joy even when it would have been easier to carry fear instead.

Arianna followed.

She held a single page torn carefully from one of her earliest notebooks. The handwriting was uneven, lines crowded with questions and observations scribbled in margins too small to hold them.

“For learning,” she said quietly.

Not for knowledge.

Not for answers.

For learning.

For the humility of not knowing. For the courage to ask. For the willingness to change one’s mind in the presence of truth.

Arian knelt next.

He removed a small charm from his pocket, one I recognized immediately. He’d made it years ago, during a time when protection felt like the only form of love he knew how to express. It had been carefully crafted, precise, layered with intention.

He buried it without hesitation.

“For protection—no longer needed.”

The words landed heavier than he probably intended.

Not because protection had failed us—but because we no longer needed to live as if danger was inevitable. We had learned when to guard and when to trust.

Cassian stood for a long moment before stepping forward.

He looked down at the mug in his hands—the same one he carried everywhere, chipped at the rim, stained from use. It had been present for nearly every late-night conversation, every argument that ended in laughter, every moment where staying mattered more than being impressive.

He set it down carefully.

“For loyalty,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, added, “And chaos, responsibly managed.”

A soft laugh rippled through the group, but there was no teasing. No sarcasm.

Just understanding.

Cassian had always been loud. Expressive. Uncontained. But loyalty had been the constant beneath it all—the thing that kept him here even when it would have been easier to disappear.

Adrian knelt last.

He removed his wedding band slowly, almost reverently, and placed it on the ground for just a moment. Long enough to acknowledge what it represented—not possession, not permanence, but transformation.

“For love that changed me,” he said.

Then he slipped the ring back onto his finger.

Not because he feared losing it.

But because he had chosen it.

Lucian and I stood together, hands entwined.

There was nothing left to place that wasn’t already part of us. No object that could capture the breadth of what we’d learned, what we’d survived, what we’d become.

So I pressed my palm into the soil.

“For peace.”

Not the absence of conflict—but the presence of steadiness. The kind of peace that exists even when life remains unpredictable.

Lucian added softly, “For the future.”

And that was it.

No spell followed.

No surge of magic answered our offerings. No wind howled or light flared or earth shifted beneath our feet.

Just a breeze.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand attention. The kind that exists naturally when nothing needs to be proven.

That was enough.

We stood there a while longer, watching the last of the daylight fade, the garden settling into shadow and softness. Elena stirred, then relaxed again. The flowers swayed gently, indifferent to ceremony, content simply to exist.

As we turned back toward the house, I realized something.

I didn’t look over my shoulder.

Not to check.

Not to remember.

Not to make sure nothing followed us.

I walked forward without hesitation, without regret.

Some moments don’t need to be carried with you.

They need to be honored—

and then left where they belong.

In the ground that helped you grow.