“Live,” he had whispered. “For both of us.”

Because Yuki was his world now. She always had been.

They did not turn. They did not answer. But they smiled.

But that night, alone, the old woman touched her own reflection and whispered two names into the dark:

“No.” Yuki turned to face him fully. “I regret the cost . But not the choice.”

“I know.”

Outside, the rain softened to a mist. Inside, the fire popped once, then settled. Yuki tilted her face up, and Kaname kissed her forehead, her nose, the corner of her lips—each touch a vow.

“You gave up everything,” he had said.

“I miss nothing,” he said, “except the years I could not hold you.”

“Who are they?” the girl asked.