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Morning dawns, spreading blood-soaked red fingers over the gloomy horizon. Scarlet soaks through a veil of indigo-black, burgeoning and burning. The haze from the storm the previous evening still clings to the sky, unwilling to pass just yet.
Verso finds her on the edge of the cliffs above the dark shore.
They had fled across the ocean the day before and made camp on the first flat area away from the water. Down below, the waves thrash against jagged rock, hissing white foam into the air.
She’s sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, her back to him, motionless except for the wind tugging at her hair. Verso doesn’t think she’s eaten breakfast yet. She probably didn’t sleep at all, either. He doesn’t blame her, after what she had gone through.
Verso’s boots crunch lightly on the damp grass as he approaches, slow, hesitant. He doesn’t want to spook her.
But the second she hears him, she stiffens.
“I don’t want company,” she says, voice raw from crying.
“I know,” Verso replies softly.
She doesn’t turn around.
He lowers himself into a crouch a few feet away, hands resting loosely on his knees. “I thought you might still want someone nearby.”
“I don’t.”
The silence grows heavy again.
Verso sighs through his nose, watching the Monolith in the distance. “I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders tense.
“He was important to you, I can tell. He was your…brother? Father?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m just— I’m sorry. If I had just been quicker…”
At that, Maelle’s head jerks around so fast it looks painful.
Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, and her mouth twists in disgust. “Don’t.”
He falters. “I just mean—”
“Shut up, please. You don’t get to say that,” she snaps, voice cracking. “You don’t get to sit here and pretend you have a right to feel anything.”
Verso flinches like she’s slapped him. “Maelle…”
“No! Shut up. Shut up!”
She scrambles to her feet, backing away from him like he’s something venomous. Her hands are trembling, her voice is trembling, her whole body is trembling.
“You weren’t there. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what he did. You didn’t see Gustave look at me like that, like he knew he was dying but he didn’t want me to see it—!”
Her voice catches. She doubles over slightly, like it hurts to hold the words in.
“I screamed. I screamed so loud my throat felt like it had torn, and he still didn’t get up.”
Verso slowly rises to his feet. “I know. I know I wasn’t there. If I had gotten there sooner—”
“You didn’t,” she cuts in, her tone bitter and sharp. “You didn’t. And now you want to feel bad? You think that helps me?”
He doesn’t answer.
She laughs. A horrible, broken sound. “You want to be the tragic hero, too, huh? You get to walk around with your guilt like a prize. At least you can feel guilty. I don’t get anything. I just get this.”
She points to her chest, furious tears running down her cheeks. “This hole. This empty space where he used to be.”
“I know I failed,” Verso whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Maelle shakes her head violently. “You don’t get to be sorry! You don’t get to be anything. You weren’t his brother. You weren’t— you weren’t his.”
Her voice hitches.
“I was his kid.”
Verso’s face crumples, but he doesn’t reach for her. Not after that. He stays rooted to the ground, guilt radiating off of him like steam, but still. Still.
“I was his kid. I would have died for him,” Maelle breathes. “I would’ve traded places if I could.”
The wind howls across the cliffs. Somewhere below, a gull cries out.
Verso finally speaks again. Quiet, hoarse. “So would I.”
“Yeah. I wish you did.”
Her words don’t land like a slap—they land like a sword straight through the gut. Verso’s breath hitches, barely audible over the crashing waves. But she doesn’t stop there.
“I wish you had been there. I wish that white-haired bastard had taken one look at you and decided you were the one to kill. Not Gustave.” Her voice rises, trembling with rage and grief and the kind of sorrow that’s too big for someone so small to hold. “He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it. He should be here. He should be alive. And you— you get to show up late and say you’re sorry like it means something?”
Verso doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even move.
Maelle steps forward, her fists clenched so tight her fingernails dig into her palms. “Do you know what I remember the most from that day? Not the blood. Not Renoir’s face. Not even Gustave’s last words. It was the sound of him hitting the ground. That horrible, final sound. That was it. That was when I knew he wasn’t getting back up.”
She breathes hard, chest heaving, shoulders tense. “And you weren’t there. You weren’t there to stop it. You weren’t there to watch him go. You weren’t there when I screamed, or when I shook him, or when I begged him not to go. So don’t you dare come here and act like you carry this with you the same way I do.”
Verso’s eyes are glassy now, but he still says nothing. Maybe because he knows he can’t.
“Do you know how many people he helped?” Maelle goes on, voice splintering. “How many times he stood in front of me and took the blow instead? How many nights he sat up with me while I had nightmares so bad I forgot where I was? He was everything. And now he’s gone. And you want me to comfort you? You want to try to comfort me? I don’t know you! You’re just some random guy who waltzed in two minutes too late and thinks he can stick around! Why are you even still here? You think any of us want you around? Are you trying to take Gustave’s place? Is that it?”
“No,” Verso says quickly. “No, Maelle, that’s not it at all. I want to help you and your friends reach the Paintress. We have the same goal. I’m only here, right now, to give you my condolences.”
“I don’t want them!” she shouts. “I don’t want your damn condolences and apologies and half-baked words of pity! You’re not allowed to feel bad. You didn’t lose him like I did. You didn’t finally get a good life when he and his sister took you in, depend on his smile to hold your whole world together. You didn’t wake up today and forget for half a second that he’s dead. You didn’t look around for him when you got scared.”
Her voice breaks into a sob.
“I still expect him to walk over and tell me everything’s okay. I still expect him to ruffle my hair or call me ‘kiddo’ or make one of those awful jokes he thought were funny.”
The tears come fast now. She wipes them away with the back of her sleeve, furious at herself for crying but unable to stop.
“I hate you for not being there,” she says, and it comes out almost like a whisper. “I hate you because you came after. You get to be part of the story after. You get to grieve from the outside. I have to live in it.”
Verso takes a small step forward.
She flinches back immediately. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
He stops.
“I don’t want comfort,” Maelle mutters, barely audible now. “I want him. I want Gustave back. I want my brother back. And if the world made any kind of sense, you would’ve been the one to die.”
The silence that follows is a grave.
Verso doesn’t try to defend himself. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe too loud, doesn’t say anything . Because what could he say that wouldn’t make it worse? What could he possibly offer that would fix even a shard of the ruin inside her?
Nothing.
And Maelle—Maelle turns back toward the cliff’s edge with her arms wrapped around herself like they’re the only thing keeping her upright.
“Go away,” she whispers. “Please.”
Verso lingers for only a moment longer. Then, he turns, and leaves, the wind swallowing the sound of his retreat.
Maelle stays rooted there, face to the sea, where the sky meets the water and neither one has an end.
And she pretends—for just one second—that maybe if she stands there long enough, maybe if she waits, Gustave will appear to throw one more rock with her again.
But he never does.