Weeks passed at the Imperial School of Mor, a slow procession of gray and monotonous days that weighed on Mero's shoulders like a rain-soaked sail. He had regained a semblance of concentration after forgetting Mandarine's birthday, but a lingering tension still vibrated within him, an anticipation he couldn't name. Then, one morning, as the sky timidly brightened over the capital's rooftops, a servant knocked on his door, a letter in hand. The red seal, marked with a stylized boat, shone like a flame in the pale light—it was Mandarine's. His heart leaped, a mix of hope and apprehension gripping him as he broke the wax with trembling fingers.

  He unfolded the parchment, and the words, written in a neat but emotionless hand, struck him like a dagger: "I received your package." Nothing more. No "dear Mero," no warmth in the curves of her writing, no lipstick kiss—that scarlet seal she always left on her letters as a mark of love. Nothing. Just that phrase, cold and cutting, an empty echo in the silence of his room. He read it again and again, searching for a hidden meaning, a nuance he might have missed, but each reading drove the dagger deeper. She was angry. How could he have forgotten?

  Mero collapsed into his chair, the crumpled parchment in his hand, his gaze lost in the void. The pain was sharp, almost physical, a cold blade twisting relentlessly in his chest. He had betrayed Mandarine—not intentionally, but through negligence, a fault he couldn't excuse. The absence of warmth in those words terrified him, an abyss opening beneath his feet as he imagined what she must be feeling, far away on her distant island. Was she disappointed? Furious? Hurt to the point of no longer wanting him? He closed his eyes, his breath short, and his mind raced, painting scenes he couldn't bear.

  He saw Mandarine in his mind, standing on a windswept cliff, her black hair whipped by the storm, her gaze fixed on the horizon where no ship appeared. Perhaps she held his package—that silver and black pearl bracelet he had sent in panic—and let it fall into the foaming waves, a silent gesture of rejection. Maybe she had waited for days, weeks, for a sign from him on her birthday, a word, a promise, something to prove he thought of her as much as she did of him. And nothing had come. He imagined her green eyes, so often laughing, filling with bitter tears, her voice trembling as she murmured, "He forgot me." She, who had crossed the seas for him, who had defied her father and her world for their love, might have believed, in that moment, that he didn't love her as much as he claimed.

  Or worse, perhaps she wasn't crying. Maybe she was sitting in a dark tavern on the island, surrounded by her pirates, laughing with a coldness he didn't recognize, the bracelet tossed on a table like a worthless trinket. "An imperial prince," she might have said to her companions, a bitter smile on her lips, "too busy to remember me." He imagined her raising a mug of rum, toasting to his forgetfulness, her words sharp as blades: "He can keep his gifts—I don't want them." This Mandarine, hard and distant, terrified him even more than the hurt Mandarine, for it meant he had lost not only her love but her respect.

  Each scenario he invented was torture, a cruel mirror reflecting his failure. He saw her face, so vivid in his memories, fading away, replaced by a stranger he had disappointed. Had she opened the package with hope, looking for a letter that would explain his silence, only to find a cold, soulless piece of jewelry? Had she waited by the pirate post, scanning every ship, hoping for a messenger who would never come? He imagined her hands clutching the parchment, her fingers tense with frustration, her thoughts swirling like the storms she loved to defy: "He knew, and he chose to ignore me." This thought shattered him—Mandarine, so proud, so strong, reduced to doubting him, doubting them.

  He stood up, pacing his room like a caged animal, the parchment abandoned on the desk like a sentence. How could he have been so blind? Her birthday wasn't just a date—it was a symbol, proof that he cared about her despite the distance, despite the duties that burdened him. And he had failed. He had sent that package in haste, a desperate gesture to make up for his forgetfulness, but now he saw clearly: it wasn't enough. That bracelet, no matter how precious, was just an object—it didn't carry his heart, his words, the love she deserved. She must have looked at it, alone, and seen an admission of negligence, an empty excuse where she expected a promise.

  The weight of regret crushed him, a dark wave that overwhelmed him without mercy. He slid down the wall, collapsing to the floor, his hands clutching his hair. How could he have forgotten? Mandarine, with her wild laughter and eyes that saw through him, was everything to him—his anchor, his fire, his horizon. And he had left her alone, abandoned in a moment when she needed him. His thoughts spiraled, a litany of self-reproach that never ended. He had been too absorbed in his studies, his projects, his ambitions—too self-centered to remember her. Was this love? An oversight that shattered everything he had sworn to protect?

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  He wallowed in his room, the hours stretching like days in his solitude. The silence of the letter was a storm in itself, more deafening than the waves he had faced with her. He imagined her nights on the island, alone in her cabin, perhaps rereading his old letters—the ones where he promised never to forget her—and comparing them to this dry, impersonal message. Was she doubting him, their future? Did she see him as an arrogant prince, too busy with his duties to keep his promises? Or worse, had she already decided he was no longer worthy of her love, that he was just a memory to leave behind, like a shipwreck on an abandoned beach?

  Each thought was a blow, each silence a reproach. He saw her face in the darkness—her lips no longer smiling, her eyes no longer seeking his—and it tore him apart. He had sent that package with so much hope, believing it could erase his mistake, but now he understood: it wasn't a repair, it was an insult. A piece of jewelry without words, without heart, without him. She deserved better—passionate letters, promises whispered in the wind, a love that crossed the seas for her. And he had failed. How could he have been so stupid, so selfish? He cursed himself, his fists clenched against his temples, his breath ragged with guilt that consumed him.

  Days passed, heavy and endless, and Mero sank into a torpor he couldn't shake. Sven and Dorian, his loyal friends, tried to pull him out of this abyss. Sven, with his usual pragmatism, sat beside him one evening in the common room, a mug of steaming tea in his hands. "Life is made of mistakes, Mero," he said, his deep voice trying to pierce the fog. "You forgot, yes, but it's not irreparable. She knows who you are." He spoke of his own mistakes, the times he had stumbled in his family duties, but his words slid off Mero like rain on a window—they didn't reach him. These mistakes seemed so trivial compared to the enormity of his failure.

  Dorian, gentler, tried another approach, leaning against the table with a sad smile. "I've forgotten important things too, you know—a promise to my sister, a birthday. It hurts, but we forgive, over time. You have to forgive yourself first." He spoke from the heart, trying to comfort him, but Mero couldn't help but compare. Their mistakes were light shadows; his was a storm that had swept everything away. He appreciated their support, their sincere efforts, but the weight of the letter remained too heavy, an anchor pulling him down. They eventually stepped back, respecting his silence, hoping that time would soothe what they couldn't heal.

  He wallowed, alone with his thoughts, each day longer than the last. Mandarine's silence was a prison, a void he filled with doubts and fears. Did he still have a chance to fix this? Or would this delay, this void between them, mark the beginning of a distance he couldn't imagine? He saw their future crumbling before him—the promises whispered under the stars, the dreams of one day being reunited—all reduced to ashes by his forgetfulness. He felt powerless, a lost prince in a kingdom he no longer controlled, and the pain was a constant companion, a specter he couldn't chase away.

  A month passed, an eternity of torment and waiting, until one morning, a new letter arrived. The familiar red seal made his heart race so fast he thought it might burst. He opened it with trembling hands, and the words, simple but powerful, struck him like lightning in the night: "I love you anyway." No lipstick kiss, no long declarations, but those four words, written in her hand, were a lifeline in the ocean of his distress.

  Mero felt a wave of relief wash over him, a tremor running through him as tears he couldn't hold back rolled down his cheeks. She wasn't angry—or at least, not enough to reject him. Those words, stark but sincere, broke the prison of his mind, letting in a light he had thought extinguished. He reread the letter, again and again, each syllable a caress, a redemption he didn't deserve but that she offered him. No reproaches, no anger—just a raw, unshakable love that crossed the seas for him.

  He stood up, the parchment clutched to his heart, and approached the window. The sky was clear, a brilliant blue that seemed to reflect the peace growing within him. She loved him anyway. Despite his forgetfulness, despite the silence, she still loved him. The guilt didn't disappear entirely—it remained, a scar he would carry for a long time—but it softened, eclipsed by this rekindled hope. He imagined Mandarine writing those words, perhaps after days of reflection, a slight smile on her lips, choosing to reach out to him rather than push him away. This image warmed him, erasing the dark visions that had haunted him.

  His life in his small bubble could begin again. The classes, the projects, the laughter with Sven and Dorian—all of it regained meaning, carried by the certainty that she was still there, on the other side of the sea. He sat at his desk, pen in hand, and began a response—not an excuse, not a justification, but a sincere letter, overflowing with everything he hadn't known how to say before. "Mandarine, my light," he wrote, the words flowing like a freed wave, "I will never let you doubt me again."

  The weight had lifted, and with it, a promise was born—never to fail again, to cherish every moment she gave him. He folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and murmured into the silence, "I love you too." The world could turn again—she was still there, and that was enough.