Chapter Text
When Sandrone died, the sky was also mourning.
It wasn’t the sort of rain people wrote poetry about, it wasn’t the delicate silver-thread rain under streetlights, and it certainly wasn’t a soft drizzle that matched the sorrow of those left behind.
It was an ugly, mean-spirited rain. The sort that stung the face and soaked through shoes and blurred brake lights into smears. The sort that turned roads slick and made the world feel like it had stripped the edges off reality.
Columbina remembered all of it.
When the words finally broke through: “there’s been an accident”
Her first instinct wasn't to cry, but to laugh, born from the sheer absurdity that a few syllables could suddenly undo a life.
Because surely that was absurd and people did not simply say those words and mean them.
"No," she had said, her voice steady. "No, you’ve made a mistake. You have the wrong person."
She’d spoken as if the depth of her devotion acted as a shield, as if being loved that much could make a person's bones unyielding to impact.
She had operated under the delusion that the universe might actually hesitate, even once, before taking what it wanted.
It had been two years since then.
Two years of silence where Sandrone’s laughter should have been.
Every morning, Columbina’s hand still wandered to the cold, vacant half of the bed. Her grief hadn't faded.
Her grief had not lessened so much as changed shape. It was no longer a fresh wound, but a locked room Columbina carried inside herself everywhere she went. A haunted space she entered alone and exited in pieces.
Meanwhile, somewhere beyond the veil of all mortal understanding, the soul that had once belonged to Sandrone had opened its eyes.
There were no golden gates or celestial choirs. There was only an echoing stillness and a voice that sounded like it was traveling through fathoms of water.
Your life ended before its purpose did.
The words hung in the void.
Go back. Find it. Fulfill it.
And when she had tried to ask what that purpose was, who she had been, what she had left behind–
The voice had only said, almost sadly:
You will know when your heart remembers.
Then came the weight. The violent rush of air into lungs that didn't remember how to move. The agonizing transition from nothing to everything.
She was alive, she was breathing, and she felt utterly hollow.
Columbina learned that hell did not always announce itself dramatically. She had always imagined hell would arrive with a roar. Instead, it arrived with a soft, digital ping.
it came in the form of an HR email.
She was at her desk when it arrived, one dull Monday morning that smelled faintly of coffee and printer toner.
Outside the office windows, the city looked washed-out and indifferent. Inside, keyboards clacked, phones buzzed and footsteps crossed polished floors.
Arlecchino was standing by the glass wall of Columbina’s office, immaculate as ever in tailored black, one hand in her pocket and the other holding a tablet she looked more inclined to use as a weapon than a tool.
“You have that look again,” Arlecchino said.
Columbina kept her eyes on the screen, her expression a mask of practiced serenity. "You’ll have to be more specific. I have many looks."
“you’re reading something unpleasant and smiling through it.”
“That could describe half my emails.”
Scaramouche, buried in the guest chair with his legs slung over the armrest, didn't bother looking up from his phone.
He looked like he hated the chair, the office, and the very concept of the 40-hour work week. "That’s just her default settings," he bit out. "Optimized for corporate misery."
Columbina smiled faintly despite herself.
She clicked the email open.
- Subject: New Associate Transfer - Mentor Assignment
- Details: Please facilitate the integration and three-month onboarding process for the following candidate.
There was an attached profile. She saw the name first.
Sandrone
And for one impossible second, the world had stopped.
The cursor stilled beneath her hand. Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.
Arlecchino’s posture changed at once. “Columbina?”
But Columbina was already clicking the attachment. Her hand seemed to move on its own, like how one might compulsively press a thumb into a fresh wound just to verify the pain was real.
The photo loaded.
Scaramouche sat up so fast his phone nearly skittered across the floor. Arlecchino went rigid, her shadow lengthening against the glass.
On the screen was Sandrone.
It wasn't just a girl who looked like her. It wasn't a cruel trick of memory. It was the same intelligent face. The same blue, unreadable eyes that had seen every version of Columbina and loved them all. The same mouth that had curled against Columbina’s ear and said her name like a secret.
The same mouth that had once traced the line of Columbina’s collarbone, whispering promises that death had made a lie.
The same beauty. The same impossible face.
Only, she looked younger, like a version of her untouched by the weight of their years together, unmarred by the weariness of the world.
She looked like a ghost that had forgotten it was dead.
Columbina stared until the image blurred.
“No,” Scaramouche said first. “Absolutely not.”
Arlecchino moved around the desk immediately. “Columbina. Look at me.”
Columbina didn't look. She couldn't. Her tears spilled over, tracking a traitorous path down her cheek. Her voice was a phantom of itself, barely audible.
“Tell me I’ve finally lost my mind.”
Arlecchino looked at the monitor, then at Columbina. and for once there was no sharpness in her expression. Only alarm and perhaps pity, she was trying not to show.
Scaramouche stood up and leaned over the desk, glaring at the photo as though offended by the audacity of it.
"That’s her," he muttered. "Or it’s the universe playing a very cruel joke."
“a cosmic joke wearing her face.” Arlecchino said.
Columbina swallowed, her throat feeling like it was full of glass. "She starts today. She’s in the lobby."
No one said anything.
At last Scaramouche muttered, “I hate this place. I told you we should've filled that resignation a year ago.”
"You can refuse," Arlecchino said, her hand hovering near Columbina’s shoulder. “Give me the word and I’ll talk to HR myself.”
“No.”
"Columbina, look at that face. You can’t do this to yourself."
“No,” Columbina repeated, this time with more breath than voice. “If I refuse, they’ll give her to someone else…I mean, someone else will mentor her.”
Scaramouche’s brows pulled together. “That’s the point?”
Arlecchino tried again. “I’ll ask them to transfer her over to Furina instead.”
Columbina kept staring at the photo.
Columbina finally moved. Her fingertips hovered just a fraction of an inch away from the screen, tracing the curve of a cheek she had once known better than her own.
"No," she whispered. "If she’s going to walk through those doors wearing that face, I’m going to be the first thing she sees."
Her name, this new Sandrone had been told, was Sandrone.
This was a fact she had been told and accepted.
She understood the basic mechanics of herself: She knew she had always been good with tech. She knew she preferred precision over conversation, routine over spontaneity, and quiet over nearly everything else.
She knew she had moved here recently for work, and that she was meant to do something significant with her life, though she had no idea what.
She also knew, by ten thirty on her first day, that something was deeply wrong with her new mentor.
The woman waiting for her in the conference room was beautiful. That was Sandrone’s first immediate thought. How inconvenient.
Her second was: Why is she looking at me like that?
Columbina stood as she entered, all soft white silk and pale gold jewelry and dark hair spilling over one shoulder. She looked too gentle for an office this sharp-edged, but the badge at her waist and the authority in the room bent naturally around her.
Then she looked up, and her smile arrived a heartbeat too late.
"Hello," Columbina said.
Sandrone paused at the threshold. There it was again, that look. It didn’t feel like the polite curiosity of a superior, nor was it quite shock.
It was something more like exposed vulnerability. It made Sandrone feel as though she had walked out of a grave and expected to be welcomed for it.
"Hi," Sandrone replied, her voice carefully neutral.
Columbina’s fingers tightened against the folder she was clutching. For a panicked second, Sandrone thought the woman might cry.
Sandrone braced herself for a breakdown. Instead, Columbina drew a shaky breath, composed her features into a mask of professional poise, and crossed the room with a half-extended hand.
"I’m Columbina. I’ll be overseeing your onboarding and--" she stumbled, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out. "--and mentoring you for the next few months."
Sandrone took the offered hand. The contact lasted barely a second.
A jolt surged up Columbina’s arm, violent enough that she nearly recoiled. Sandrone felt the echo of it. It felt like something strange and electric. like a memory she hadn't lived.
It was deeply unwelcome. Like déjà vu sharpened into pain. They broke apart instantly.
From the doorway, a sound broke the tension. Scaramouche was leaning against the frame, nursing a paper cup of coffee and watching the scene with fascination, like he was witnessing a slow-motion wreck.
“Columbina stop staring, you’re scaring her." he drawled, directed at Columbina.
"I’m not," she snapped, though her eyes hadn't left Sandrone’s face.
"You are. It's creepy."
Arlecchino appeared behind him, a dark shadow in the hall. Her gaze flicked to Columbina, measuring the damage, before settling on Sandrone.
“Welcome aboard,” she said. “Ignore him.”
"I try to ignore most people," Sandrone murmured.
Scaramouche actually looked impressed. "Yeah? You’ll fit right in”
The tension in the room eased by a fraction, but when Columbina’s gaze drifted back to Sandrone, the grief returned to her face so fast it made Sandrone uneasy all over again.
"Please," Columbina gestured to the chair beside her. "Sit."
The orientation should have been a mundane checklist of logins and reporting structures. Instead, it was a fractured mess. Columbina kept faltering, her breath hitching every time Sandrone moved, as if she were trying to memorize a ghost.
"Your credentials should be active by noon," Columbina said, but her voice trailed off.
A stray lock of Columbina's hair had fallen forward, hovering inches from her own face. It had been bothering Sandrone for the last ten minutes. Columbina seemed too distracted to notice, her hands trembling slightly on the desk.
Sandrone didn't think; she just reached out.
It was a harmless motion, tucking the hair back behind Columbina’s ear.
Columbina went dead silent. She froze as if she’d been struck, her eyes wide and glassy.
Sandrone frowned, pulling her hand back. "Is something wrong?"
"No." Columbina blinked rapidly, the mask slipping. "No, I...I’m sorry. You just--" She couldn't finish the sentence.
Scaramouche, now perched on the edge of the conference table with an infuriating lack of decorum, interjected, "She’s useless when she hasn't had enough caffeine. Zones out at the slightest breeze."
"That’s not true," Columbina whispered.
"It is today, apparently," Scaramouche said, glancing at Sandrone.
Sandrone looked between them, unconvinced. Arlecchino, who had remained by the door under the flimsy pretense of needing to discuss a budget sheet, cut in smoothly.
“You’ll learn that the department has unusual dynamics.”
"I noticed," Sandrone said dryly.
Columbina pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk. "I apologize. It’s been a...difficult morning."
The words were polite, but the sorrow behind them felt indecently personal. It twisted something inside Sandrone’s chest, an ache she didn't have a name for.
She didn't know this woman, yet she felt the weight of Columbina's grief as if she were the one who had inflicted it.
The rest of the session passed very awkwardly.
At one point Sandrone reached across the table for a document, and Columbina moved at the same time, their hands brushing.
Columbina jerked back as if burned. Sandrone stared at her.
“Sorry,” Columbina said too quickly. Her voice had gone thin.
"You keep apologizing," Sandrone noted, watching her carefully.
Columbina gave her a smile that looked like it was held together by sheer willpower. "Do I?"
"Yes."
Scaramouche muttered into his coffee cup, "You have no idea."
Arlecchino shot him a look.
By the time Sandrone walked out of that room with her new laptop and a printed schedule, she had reached a final conclusion: her mentor was either deeply unstable or secretly hated her.
Or both.
Either way, the silence Sandrone usually loved was starting to feel very heavy.
For Columbina, the first week had been a form of punishment.
Every day Sandrone arrived a little before nine, usually with her hair still damp from a rushed shower and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.
Every day she nodded at reception with clipped politeness, passed the glass partition, and came into view like memory made flesh.
Every day Columbina’s heart broke all over again.
She learned quickly that the new Sandrone was not the Sandrone she had lost.
This one frowned more openly. She was less patient with small talk, more easily irritated by inefficiency.
She had none of the old familiar softness tucked into hidden corners. No private smile reserved for Columbina. No instinctive drifting closer in shared spaces. No easy understanding built from years.
This Sandrone was a stranger wearing a familiar face
But there were moments where Columbina believed otherwise
There were tiny, merciless habits that acted like salt in an open wound. Like the specific way Sandrone gripped a pen when she’s lost in thought; the tilt of her head when analyzing a screen; the habit of tapping twice against a desk before she stood up.
Even her muttered curses under her breath were the same, as if she believed she could bully the universe into order through sheer annoyance.
Columbina didn't just witness these moments; she endured them. And she survived those moments badly.
On Thursday afternoon, they were hunched over a workstation in the annex. Sandrone was deconstructing data models with a crease of concentration carved between her brows.
Columbina stood just behind her shoulder, her voice careful as she explained a reporting structure for the second time that hour.
"No," Sandrone interrupted, her eyes never leaving the monitor. "That field is supposed to auto-populate if the upstream sheet is linked."
"It doesn’t," Columbina said softly.
"It should."
"It doesn’t."
Sandrone clicked through three separate windows with mounting disbelief before leaning back with a huff. "Well, then whoever designed this system was a complete idiot."
Across the room, Scaramouche looked up from his own monitor, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Hey."
Sandrone swiveled her chair around. "You built this?"
"With my own unwilling, underpaid hands," he said, sounding entirely too proud of himself.
"That explains a lot."
Scaramouche actually chuckled. "I like her. Keep her."
Columbina couldn't help it. A laugh escaped her. It was a sound she hadn't made in years.
Sandrone turned instantly, startled by the noise. The laughter transformed Columbina; it swept away the stifling grief, making her look luminous and young.
For a moment, the ghost of the woman Columbina used to be, flickered to life.
Their eyes locked. The laughter died in Columbina’s throat, replaced by heavy silence that felt like it was pressing them together.
Sandrone was the first to look away, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.
Later that evening. Columbina leaned over Sandrone’s desk to highlight a discrepancy in a file, and as she moved, she caught it, the scent of lavender shampoo, crisp paper, and a faint, freshly baked undertone that was familiar.
It was her Sandrone’s old perfume. Or close enough to mimic it.
Columbina froze, her hand hovering over the desk. The world seemed to narrow down to that scent and the warmth radiating off the woman beside her.
Sandrone looked up, sensing the sudden shift. "What?"
“Nothing,” Columbina said. But her voice had gone strange.
Sandrone’s eyes narrowed. "You say that a lot, too."
Columbina straightened immediately, recoiling as if she’d been burned. She retreated a step, then two, putting a safe distance between them.
"I’m sorry," she said.
"Again with the apologies," Sandrone murmured, watching her retreat back with a look of unsettled bewilderment.
She watched Columbina leave, wondering why it felt like she was being blamed for a crime she didn't remember committing.
Scaramouche cornered Columbina in the break room the next morning.
"You need to stop doing that," he bit out.
Columbina didn't bother pretending she didn't understand. She was busy stirring honey into a cup of tea she knew she would eventually forget to drink. "Doing what?"
"Being all weird around her, you look at her as if she crawled out of your ribcage, or something"
The clinking stopped. Columbina paused to think.
Scaramouche leaned his weight against the counter, arms knotted across his chest. His gaze was lacking any of his usual playful malice.
"She notices, Columbina. Everyone does.”
“...really?”
“yeah, it’s like watching a car wreck in slow motion every time she asks you for a spreadsheet. or something like that."
"Then I’ll be more careful," she murmured, her voice sounding thin.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it."
The break room door swung open. Arlecchino entered, took one glance at the scene, and said, “Are you helping, or are you making it worse?”
"Both," he replied with a shrug.
Then he left. He walked out with the smug expression, like he had done his part in making a situation worse and was happy to let others handle the fallout.
When the door shut behind him, Arlecchino moved to the counter. She reached out, gently prying the spoon from Columbina’s grip before it actually started to bend.
"You look exhausted," Arlecchino said.
"I’m fine."
"You haven’t been fine in two years. Don't start lying to me now."
Columbina’s lips quirked into a smile. "That’s hardly a new, is it?"
Arlecchino didn't return the smile. She studied her friend’s face. The heavy shadows under the eyes that no amount of expensive concealer could fully mask, the way her hands were trembling now that they weren't occupied with tea.
"You can transfer her," Arlecchino said quietly. The suggestion was tempting. "To a different department. Or a different floor. Put her in a reporting line that never has to cross yours. You wouldn’t have to see that face every day."
Columbina closed her eyes, as she tried to think all this through.
"Wouldn't that be easier?" Arlecchino’s voice had softened into genuine pity.
Easier. That word was cruel.
Because yes. Yes, perhaps. In the same way amputation was easier than carrying around a shattered limb. In the same way never looking at the stars again might be easier if one had lost the sky.
Columbina’s mouth trembled, just for a second, before she bit her lip to steady it.
"I don’t know," she admitted.
Arlecchino rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. It was stiff and unfamiliar gesture of comfort, which only made the weight of it feel more significant.
"I hate seeing you like this," Arlecchino said, her voice low. "Every time she walks into a room, you look like you're being flayed alive."
Columbina laughed softly. "Aren’t you being a little overdramatic?"
"It’s accurate."
"She’s not doing anything wrong," Columbina argued, though it felt like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else. "She hasn't done anything wrong."
Arlecchino’s expression remained unreadable, her eyes dark and watchful. "No. She hasn't."
Columbina looked down into the swirling amber of her tea, the steam rising up to dampen her face.
"I don’t want her gone," she whispered.
Arlecchino exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to carry all the frustration of the last week with it. "Then keep her close. But...stop bleeding all over her, Columbina."
The breaking point finally arrived on a Tuesday.
It began with a deadline, a corrupted file, and three hours of accumulated stress.
Sandrone was hunched over her monitors, rebuilding a week’s worth of projections from scratch because a shared folder had failed to sync properly overnight.
Beside her, Scaramouche was offering advice that was technically brilliant but emotionally unbearable.
Someone from Accounting flooded her inbox with questions that could have been answered by a toddler with a reading level.
Columbina, trying to be helpful without appearing to hover, drifted toward Sandrone’s desk for the fourth time that hour.
"You haven't eaten," Columbina said, her voice a soft, cautious murmur.
Sandrone didn't even blink. "I'm aware."
"There are sandwiches in the lounge, I could bring you--"
"I said I'm aware."
Columbina hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. "You’ve been at this since seven, Sandrone. If you just stepped away for ten minutes, the clarity might--"
The screen flashed red. Error 404. Sandrone’s jaw tightened so hard it looked painful.
Instinctively, Columbina reached out, her hand moving toward the mouse to help navigate the crash. "Here, let me try--"
Sandrone recoiled. "Could you stop hovering over me for one goddamn minute?"
The sound of the office, the keyboards, the distant chatter, the hum of the HVAC, died instantly.
Scaramouche’s chair gave a squeak as he sat back, his eyes widening. Sandrone was breathing hard, her face flushed, her eyes bright with defensive fire.
"I'm sorry," Columbina whispered, her hand retreating into the folds of her blouse. She took a step back.
But Sandrone was past the point of caution. The fatigue and the confusion of the last week finally boiled over.
"You keep doing this," she snapped, her voice rising. "You stand there and you stare and you apologize for things that haven't even happened yet. You act like I'm a ghost or a bomb. If I’m failing, tell me. If I’m doing something wrong, give me a performance review. But please, for the love of god, stop treating me like I’m about to break."
Columbina looked like she’d been drained of blood.
"That’s not..." Columbina managed.
"Then what is it?" Sandrone demanded, standing up. The desk felt like a flimsy barrier between them. "Because I don't understand you. I don't understand any of this."
Columbina’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Because what could she possibly say?
Because you died was a sentence that didn't belong in an office, between quarterly reports.
Because I loved you in another life was an explanation that would only make her sound insane.
Because every time I look at you, I want to touch you and I’ll remember how to live again, was a truth too heavy for a Tuesday morning.
Columbina doesn’t have an explanation Sandrone could survive hearing.
So Columbina only looked at her, with pain, longing and sadness in her eyes.
"You're right," she said, her voice barely a thread. "I'm sorry."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps sounding light on the carpet.
Sandrone stood there, her hands shaking, her pulse hammering in her ears. Her anger immediately cooling off, replaced almost instantly by a leaden weight in her stomach. It felt like regret, though she didn't know why she should feel guilty for asking for space.
Scaramouche was the first to break the silence.
"Well," he said, his voice unusually flat. "Right, you’ve always been very mean."
“Excuse me? How would you know? You shouldn't be so quick to judge complete strangers, it's very bad manners.” Sandrone’s anger now pointed at Scaramouche.
“Oh, please. It doesn't take that long to figure out that you have a temper.”
"Shut up," Sandrone snapped, but the fire was gone. She felt small and cruel.
From the far end of the open-plan office, Arlecchino had already stood up and went after Columbina.
Arlecchino found her tucked away on the landing of the emergency stairwell, a slab of concrete between the twelfth and thirteenth floors. Columbina was huddled on the steps.
She wasn’t crying. Not yet.
Arlecchino sat beside her, the tailored fabric of her slacks rustling against the grit of the stairs. She didn’t speak. For a long time, the only sound was the distant hum of the building’s heart and the echo of footsteps somewhere far above them.
"She looked at me like…" Columbina said finally, her voice hollowed out. "like I was frightening her."
Arlecchino leaned her head back against the wall. "You did frighten her."
"I know."
The admission was so small and defeated that Arlecchino actually turned to look at her. Columbina was staring at the opposite wall, her eyes wide and fixed, as if searching for a way to claw back some shred of her dignity.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
"I know you didn’t."
"It’s just..." Columbina’s breath hitched in her throat and smoothed over with force. "Sometimes she moves a certain way, tilts her head, or mutters under her breath, and for a single, delusional second, I forget. I forget she isn’t mine. I forget that to her, I’m just a stranger who stares too long."
Arlecchino’s jaw set. She reached out. "She is not yours to grieve through, Columbina. Sandrone’s already…gone."
Columbina flinched as if she’d been struck. A moment passed, then she gave a slow nod.
Arlecchino exhaled wearily. She offered the same lifeline she had offered before, though she already knew the answer.
"It would be easier if she were in another department. Somewhere you don't have to interact with her."
Columbina let out a broken laugh. "Easier for whom?"
"For you."
Columbina leaned her head back against the wall, her eyelids fluttering shut. "I don’t want easier," she whispered into the dim light of the stairwell. "What I want is…impossible."
Arlecchino had no counter-argument for that. She knew all too well that you couldn't reason a heart out of its own breaking.
She reached over and took Columbina’s hand, a brief, grounding squeeze, one pulse against another. It was a rare gesture for Arlecchino.
And when Columbina finally broke, the tears came without a sound, she was mourning for her Sandrone who’s long gone.
And for a woman who wears her Sandrone’s face, who was sitting only a few flights of stairs away, yet was worlds apart.
Sandrone felt awful.
She also felt defensive about feeling awful, which only served to make her more irritable for the rest of the afternoon.
By the end of the day, Columbina had returned to her office. She looked composed. Wearing that same soft, distant smile, she didn’t venture anywhere near Sandrone’s desk.
Instead, the feedback came via email. The messages were professional, warm in their wording but felt very distant.
Sandrone wouldn’t admit it, but she found out she hated the distance far more than the hovering.
At six o'clock, Scaramouche paused by her workstation. He didn’t say hello; he just looked down at her with disdain.
“You made her cry,” he stated.
Sandrone’s head snapped up, her defensiveness flaring instantly. “I did not.”
“You did.”
“She’s the one being strange!” Sandrone snapped. “She was practically hovering over me!”
“She’s always strange,” he countered. “That’s unrelated to you being a brat. Just...don't do it again.”
He turned and vanished into the hallway before she could demand a proper explanation, leaving her all alone.
That night, Sandrone’s apartment felt too small. She was restless, unable to settle into the quiet she usually craved.
She washed dishes that were already sparkling clean. She opened her laptop to work, stared at the cursor for three minutes, and slammed it shut again.
Every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the scene at her desk until her own voice sounded cruel in her ears.
Finally, driven by a frustration she couldn't name, she marched into the kitchen and began to pull ingredients from the cupboards.
It was an old instinct. One of the few things that managed to silence the noises in her head.
Butter, flour, eggs, sugar. The scent of orange zest. A drizzle of honey. It was an old recipe from Fontaine she had mastered as a child.
Something she only made when she was angry, homesick, or haunted by a lack of sleep.
She worked by feel rather than measurement, She was moving with unconscious certainty she didn't possess in any other part of her life.
The kneading, the warmth of the oven, the routine of the task--it all worked to calm her down. By the time the pastries emerged, her thoughts had shifted from loud to a dull restless ache.
The next morning, she packed a few of the best ones into a small container before she could talk herself out of it.
This isn't an apology, she told herself as she snapped the lid shut.
It was a peace offering. A professional reset. A move to ensure the work environment remained functional.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Columbina’s face had drained of color when Sandrone snapped.
It had nothing to do with the heavy, unpleasant pressure that had settled in her chest and refused to budge.
Absolutely nothing to do with that.
Columbina was alone in her office when the knock came. It made her heart skip a beat before she could give it permission to.
She looked up from a report she hadn't truly processed in fifteen minutes. Sandrone was standing in the doorway, her posture rigid with determination and discomfort.
Immediately, Columbina sat straighter, smoothing her expression into something professional.
"Sandrone."
"I, ah..." Sandrone held up a small, plastic container like it was key evidence in a trial. "Can I come in?"
"Yes. Of course."
Sandrone stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her. It was a strange sight; usually, it was Columbina who was the nervous one, but now Sandrone looked profoundly out of her depth.
Then Sandrone crossed the room and placed the container gently on the desk.
"I was rude yesterday," she said, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past Columbina’s shoulder. "You were trying to help. I was stressed. It wasn't an excuse, and...well. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that."
Columbina blinked. She noticed the tips of Sandrone’s ears had turned a faint pink.
"I baked extra pastries last night," Sandrone added, too quickly. "And I thought I’d bring some. As an apology."
Columbina looked down.
Inside the box were six small pastries, glazed in a shimmering syrup. They were delicate and golden, their tops scored in a pattern that Columbina knew better than the lines on her own palms.
The world seemed to shrink until there was nothing left but that box. Her hands began to tremble, and she quickly hid them beneath the desk.
No. It was a silent scream in her mind. Not those. Please, anything but those.
Sandrone, misinterpreting the silence as lingering anger, stumbled on awkwardly. “It’s one of my favorite recipes from my hometown. A Fontainian one. I usually make it when I’ve had a particularly...bad day."
Columbina suddenly felt like it was difficult to breathe.
Because her Sandrone had made those every Sunday morning. She remembered the smudge of flour on her cheek and music drifting from the kitchen.
She remembered the way the sunlight hit the honey glaze, and the specific, warm scent of orange zest that lingered in their curtains for days.
She remembered kissing powdered sugar off a laughing mouth, and the mock-stern warning: Wait until they’re glazed, Columbina. Have some self-control.
These pastries tasted like home. They had tasted like a future that had been stolen. And now, they were sitting on her desk, impossible and warm with fresh memory.
Columbina reached toward the box, her fingers hovering. She stopped halfway, terrified that if she actually made contact, the fragile reality she'd built would shatter.
As though touching it might crack something open she would not be able to close.
Sandrone noticed the hesitation. "Are you okay?"
The concern in her voice was all wrong and all right at once. Columbina looked up, her vision already beginning to blur.
"I’m sorry…where," she asked very softly, "did you learn to make these?"
Sandrone's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I’ve always known, I think. Or at least for as long as I can remember." She gave a small shrug. "My dad used to make them too, so maybe from him? I’m not sure. Why?”
Columbina tried to laugh, but it broke into a sob halfway through.
"Oh," she said. And then the tears spilled over.
“Wait,” she said immediately. “No, no, I didn’t--I’m sorry, are you crying? Why are you crying?”
Sandrone went rigid. “Wait,” she said immediately. “No, no, I didn’t mean--I’m sorry, are you crying? Why are you crying?”
Columbina pressed the heel of her hand against her eye, trying to force a smile.
"It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It’s just...thank you. That was very kind of you."
But saying thank you over the top of a shattered heart was a losing battle. Expressing gratitude over grief has always been impossible.
And so the words came out soaked in longing.
Sandrone stepped forward on instinct, her alarm overriding her discomfort. "Did I do something wrong? Are you allergic to eggs or something?"
"No," Columbina whispered. "No, you did something very lovely."
Her voice gave way on the last word.
Sandrone reached out, a panicked “Hey--” starting to form on her lips, but she didn't get to finish it.
Columbina looked at the hand. Then at Sandrone’s face.
Something inside her, something exhausted by years of mourning and the starving need to be near the woman she loved--simply snapped.
She stood up abruptly, her chair skidded back against the rug, and she crossed the small space between them in a single motion.
When she wrapped her arms around Sandrone, it was with two years worth of longing and restraint, collapsing at once.
Sandrone froze.
Columbina was holding her so tightly it almost hurt. It felt desperate. Her face buried against Sandrone’s shoulder, trembling with silent sobs that turned into helpless crying that shook both of them.
“Bina--”
Sandrone stopped, her eyes widening. startled by the name rising instinctively to her own mind even though she had never called her that aloud before.
It had slipped out effortlessly like an instinctive reflex from a mind that shouldn't have known it.
Columbina only held on tighter, her hands bunching into the fabric of Sandrone's blazer.
Sandrone’s own hands hovered uselessly in the air, her skin buzzing in shock that felt like a fever.
Because what was she supposed to do? Push her away? Stand there? Call someone?
Sandrone thought about it hard. She should push Columbina away. She should call Arlecchino. She should be angry.
But Columbina was weeping as if her heart had finally been given permission to break, and the sheer scale of that grief was so immense, that Sandrone’s own confusion faltered beneath it.
Slowly, almost tentatively, Sandrone let her arms drop. One hand settled between Columbina’s shoulder blades; the other rested lightly on her elbow. She felt the heat of the other woman's tears soaking through her shirt.
"It's okay," Sandrone heard herself murmur, though she had no idea why she was saying it. "It’s...it’s alright."
Columbina made a broken sound against her shoulder that felt like a knife twisting in Sandrone’s chest for reasons she could not begin to understand.
They stayed like that for several long breaths, the only sound in that office was Columbina’s quiet sobs.
Then, the spell broke. Columbina seemed to wake up within her own skin. She jerked back, horror washing over her tear-streaked face.
"Oh God," she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Sandrone, I shouldn’t have--I didn't mean to--"
She stumbled back, wiping frantically at her eyes with trembling fingers.
"It’s been a stressful week," she said, a pathetic excuse that explained nothing. "I don’t know what came over me. Please, forgive me."
Sandrone stood rooted to the carpet, her shoulder feeling strangely cold where Columbina had been leaning. She felt breathless, as if she’d been the one crying.
"You just..." Sandrone started, then trailed off. "You hugged me."
"I know."
"You...you cried on me."
Columbina let out a miserable laugh. "Yes. Unfortunately, that also happened."
Sandrone stared at her. Columbina took several shaky breaths until a version of her smile returned.
That same soft smile, this time, it looked fragile and utterly haunting. She wiped the last of the dampness from her cheeks.
"Thank you," Columbina said sincerely. "For the apology. And the pastries. They mean more than you know."
Sandrone was still trying to understand what had happened in the last five minutes. "You’re...welcome?"
Columbina’s smile turned gentler, more devastating than the tears. “You’re very kind, you know. Even when you don’t mean to be.”
“I was pretty sure I did mean to be.” Sandrone muttered.
“That might make it worse,” Columbina murmured.
Sandrone’s heart gave one hard, stupid thud in her chest.
Because Columbina was looking at her now with red-rimmed eyes and unbearable beauty, and the strangest thought arrived uninvited:
She’s so goddamn weird.
Followed immediately by:
And she’s so goddamn beautiful.
And then, somehow worst of all:
Why does that matter to me? I need to leave…but, I don't want to leave.
Sandrone cleared her throat, forcing her legs to move. "Well. I should get back to work."
"Yes," Columbina said softly. "Of course."
A heavy pause hung between them.
"Goodbye, Columbina."
"Goodbye, Sandrone."
Sandrone turned and walked out, her legs feeling unsteady. She felt a bizarre sense of resentment toward the hallway for looking so normal when her entire world felt like it had been shifted.
Behind her, the door clicked shut. Columbina sank into her chair, pressing her hand over her mouth again to keep her from screaming.
Because the room suddenly seemed too small for her grief.
Sandrone didn’t make it past the next bend in the corridor before her legs gave out. She slumped against the wall, doing little to settle the frantic heat rising under her skin.
Her shoulder still felt heavy.
She reached up and touched the fabric of her blazer, her fingers grazing the spot where Columbina’s face had been buried.
She half-expected to find the cloth scorched, but there was only the lingering dampness and floral ghost of a scent that made her head swim.
What was that? What kind of person--what kind of professional--collapsed into their subordinate's arms over a box of pastries?
Her mentor, her brain corrected, though the word felt useless now. She’s my mentor.
Columbina was strange. Alarmingly strange. But Sandrone wasn't replaying the embrace with the outrage she should have felt. Instead, she was stuck in a dazed curiosity.
She couldn't shake the way their bodies had fit so well together--not like a stranger, but like a missing piece finally clicking into place.
She couldn't unhear the way her own name had sounded in that sad and broken voice.
or the fact that her own arms had known exactly how to hold Columbina back before her mind had even processed the contact.
That was the part that truly unsettled her. Holding Columbina had felt less intrusive than it should have, as though some part of Sandrone’s body had known what to do before her mind caught up.
"What happened to you?"
The voice was like a bucket of ice water. Sandrone snapped upright as Scaramouche appeared at the end of the hall. He was leaning against a doorframe, watching her.
"Nothing," Sandrone said, perhaps a second too fast.
Scaramouche’s gaze drifted past her, lingering on the closed door of Columbina’s office, before flicking back to the flush on Sandrone's neck.
"Oh," he said.
It was a short syllable, but it was so heavily loaded with unspoken context that Sandrone felt herself bristle. "What? What does that mean?"
"Nothing," he echoed, a mirror of her own lie.
"Why are you smiling like that? It’s annoying."
"I’m not smiling."
“Your face annoys the hell out of me!” Sandrone’s temper thinned once again.
Scaramouche shrugged, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. He pushed off the doorframe, offering a mock-salute as he turned to walk away.
"Welcome to hell, kid," he called back over his shoulder. "Try not to let the ghosts bite."
Columbina drifted through the rest of the day on pure instinct.
She replied to emails she wouldn’t remember writing. She authorized revisions with a hand that felt miles away from her body.
She even managed a brief check-in with Finance, nodding at the right intervals while the ghost of the embrace clung to her skin like a second shadow.
Arlecchino stopped by at five, her eyes immediately landing on the small plastic container sitting on the desk.
She didn't ask for details; she didn't have to. She knew the weight of it, all too well.
"Do you need a ride home? I’ll be dropping Furina off, you could come with us." Arlecchino asked quietly before leaving for the evening.
"No. it’s okay"
"Do you want company?”
Columbina’s gaze flicked to the pastries again.
"No," she said. "But thank you, Arlecchino. Truly."
Arlecchino squeezed her shoulder once. "Try not to break your own heart any further tonight."
Columbina almost laughed at that. It was an absurd suggestion.
As if her heart was still whole enough to be protected. Because now, her heart is just a collection of shards that she was tired of carrying.
When the office finally emptied and dusk turned the windows dark, she gathered her things. She carried the container down to the parking garage.
The moment she sat in her car and pulled the door shut, the silence fell around her at once. There were no more sharp lights. No more professional masks. No more eyes to perform for.
There was only her, the box on the passenger seat, and the unbearable fact of what had happened.
Columbina slumped over the steering wheel. For a long time, she just cried. She was wrung-out weeping like she had been holding their breath for years.
When she finally found her voice, it was directed at the dark windshield.
Or at the memory and the absence, she was no longer sure.
"Sandrone," she breathed. "I miss you so much. It hurts."
A fresh wave of tears blurred her vision.
"Why are you doing this to me?" She let out a weak giggle. "You always did have the most terrible timing."
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, fading into the city's background noise.
Columbina wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and reached for the box. Her fingers trembled as she pried the lid open, and the scent rose immediately.
It smelled of butter, citrus, honey.
And of…home.
Her chest clenched so hard she thought for one moment it might actually stop. Slowly, she picked up one of the pastries. The glaze caught faintly in the dim light from the garage.
Her hands were shaking again.
“Cruel girl,” she whispered to no one. Or maybe to both Sandrones at once.
Then, she took a bite and the world ended quietly.
Because it tasted exactly the same.
The same bright tang of orange zest, the same delicate, buttery crumb that melted against her tongue, the same whisper of salt that cut through the sweetness. It was a fingerprint in sugar and flour.
She tasted the same impossible tenderness in the making of it.
She closed her eyes and suddenly she wasn't in a dark garage. She was in a sun-drenched kitchen on a Sunday morning, leaning against a warm shoulder while she stole batter from a spoon.
She was listening to a voice she’d memorized better than her own name. She was safe. She was loved.
Then the vision snapped. The cold steering wheel was back. The ache in her throat returned, sharper than before.
Columbina pressed the remains of the pastry to her mouth and sobbed harder.
What was she supposed to do with this?
How was she supposed to survive a woman who wore Sandrone’s face, baked Sandrone’s soul into bread, and felt--in brief flashes--like a ghost that might actually turn warm if held long enough?
She didn't know if this was a mercy or a more sophisticated form of torture. She didn't know if her heart, already stitched together with grief and longing, could survive another week of this.
But still,
Tomorrow, when the clock struck nine and the door to the office opened, Columbina knew for certain that she would look up. She would do so, every single time.
Because grief was just love with nowhere to go.
And longing was a room she still lived in.
Because somewhere inside the shape of this impossible second chance, there was a thread pulling tight between them, asking to be followed.
And when Sandrone had held her--confused, stiff, and frightened, but holding her nonetheless--for the first time in years, Columbina had felt something move beneath the rubble of her life.
It wasn't peace or healing. But it was alive enough to hurt differently. And somehow, absurd as it was, it felt like a new beginning.
She sat in the dark car, the sweetness of the pastry still lingering on her tongue, she let the ache of it consume her.
“Sandrone, if this is truly you…” she breathed into the silence, “if the universe has actually brought you back to me…”
“Then please, let your heart find its way back to me.”
“and If you’re really here,” Columbina whispered, “please remember me.”
Time seemed to bend around one trembling hope: that somewhere beneath unfamiliar memories and borrowed tomorrows, Sandrone’s soul was still reaching for her in ways neither of them yet understood.
And so Columbina sat there with tears drying on her cheeks, loving her still, waiting still, as though devotion itself might become bright enough to guide a lost heart home.