#architect’s apprentice

[bookcoversonly]

Title: The Architect's Apprentice | Author: Elif Shafak | Publisher: Viking (2015)

[cy-lindric]

On the hundredth day after the new year the heralds come to the doors of the city, announcing the arrival of the Golden Caravan at the farthest stop of its route ; like every year, citizens and travellers will surely gather at the western door to see it come to pass.

Right behind the banners as customary are the sculptor priests, foremost of the stonemason orders, bringing in this year's votive masterwork for the festivities. The black and white steppe oxen precede the arrival of the head guild architect, charged with the safekeeping of the citizens' sacred geometry. The graduating apprentices and newly welcomed novices walk besides the draftsroom carriage, bearing the icons of the Citizen Architects Guild : ardor and patience. Out of the kilns of the imperial workshops come delicate masterwork sought after the world over ; the sister-ceramists are selected from various key regions of the trade system and bring their local styles to the imperial production. Those workshops are the northernmost stop on the caravan's route.

Behind the masons, the torchbearers announce the arrival of the metalworkers' guilds, chief of which the head goldsmith on a palanquin of her own design. The braseros and forges are continuously tended by guild kindlers as to remain lit throughout the entire voyage of the caravan. Second to last comes the host of the manticore, behind the braseros of the master kindlers. It is believed that the creature requires her caretakers to be pure of heart and most diligent ; the honour is bestowed only on the highest performing apprentices of the smithing guilds. On the last day finally, behind the last of the apprentices, the crones of the chain count the days left to craft, keeping misfortune at work away, and, some even say, Death itself.

[ijustkindalikebooks]

From The Architect's Apprentice by Elif Shafak.

[normavasquez]

the worth of one’s faith depended not on how solid and strong it was, but on how many times one would lose it and still be able to get it back. ― Elif Shafak The Architect's Apprentice

[scribeofmorpheus]

Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral"

Concept art by Matt Rhodes

"To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals."

What is inherent with Veilguard that keeps bothering me is the fact that the world's choices truly didn't matter--and it doesn't simply bother me from a player perspective, it's not simply a grievance borne of frustration to what I (as a longtime fan) have lost. It's about the very culture of the arts under capitalism's new media habituation cycle [x][x].

Yes, I spent hours of my life playing and replaying each instalment of Dragon Age. Yes, I painstakingly curated a 'canon' world state by replaying what came before in preparation for Veilguard. Yes, I am even more unsatisfied with the end product--time hasn't helped, it's just widened the divide. But, and I can't stress this enough, these very personal gripes aren't what hit home the most. It's the inherent disregard of legacy. A legacy that the previous writers and game developers were building towards.

In the DAV artbook, "cathedral" is the word used to describe the process of making a game. Matt Rhodes' exact words are: "One artist can make a painting, but it takes a team to build a cathedral." Cathedrals took centuries to build. The architect who drafted the first blueprints would likely never see his work realised, he had to rely on those who came after him, like-minded and passionate, to see it through--for the culture, for the future, for legacy. Painters took on several apprentices for this reason too--giant frescoes were not completed by one man's hand, even if it is one man's name that immortalises them. Similarly, if you weave a narrative around choice, what good does it do to take it away at the final act if not to fall to caricature?

To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals.

Late-stage capitalism and profit-margin-obsessed game producers forcing developers to churn out meager content, to make a known brand into something it's not, to chase a fad or a popular trend... o, how reductive and cliche you've been forced to become Bioware. We have lost the cultural thought patterns relative to Cathedrals. We know only of barn-raised churches--done in a day but unlikely to last the turn of the seasons.

And don't even get me started on the music of Veilguard either. From Origins to World of Warcraft to Everquest to Baldur's Gate to Dungeon Siege, you can hear the intricate interconnected weave of sounds inspired by the Dungeons and Dragons-esque fantasy genre. You hear it in the repeated use of certain instruments, in the harmonic weeping notes of a bard-like singer or the foreboding echoes of drums as if of war. In tavern songs. But then, rather than hire someone who loves these worlds and this genre, who is a hungry artist looking to make a name, a legacy if you will, for themselves with a spectacular score, you hire any already sated composer, one well-into the encroaching years of career fatigue, whose notes repeat in countless projects, who feels less concise and more uninterested with each new project. One who has long since cemented his legacy. Someone in it for a paycheck and nothing else! And, to top it off, you let him compose something so minimalist? I am offended actually.

Cathedrals! We should have witnessed the final tile being placed on the Dragon Age cathedral. Instead, some architects walked up, tore down the interior and installed IKEA furniture and called it authentic before having to call the previous architects to come and fix the "load-bearing issues", forcing them to rush and add a coat of varnish and a few 'aged' details for authenticity.

[sagewraith]

It was after this incident that Jahan understood his master’s secret resided not in his toughness, for he was not tough, nor in his indestructibility, for he was not indestructible, but in his ability to adapt to change and calamity, and to rebuild himself, again and again, out of the ruins. While Jahan was made of wood, and Davud of metal, and Nikola of stone, and Yusuf of glass, Sinan was made of flowing water. When anything blocked his course, he would flow under, around, above it, however he could; he found his way through the cracks, and kept flowing forward.

— The Architect's Apprentice, Elif Shafak

[shapelytimber]

Updated my au's recap to add Tarkin and Krennic :)

And of course I updated The Science

[COMMISSIONS]

(also fixed Sabé's sexuality ! Thank you to the Sabé connoisseurs for letting me know she has a canonical boyfriend at one point ! xoxo)

Yapping below vvv

Welcome to me and my struggle with imperial military uniforms fjdkdkk they just so boring and often khaki-

For Tarkin I took inspiration from a Star Trek concept that I'm so mad isn't a thing in Star Wars... The dress uniform ! The classy, just for show, uncomfortable version of classic uniforms ! (Couldn't believe that wasn't already a thing in sw, but when I searched for it I stumbled upon a sub reddit called "the empire did nothing wrong" and sometimes self care is to not clic on the clearly far right corner of your fandom to look upon a shitty fan made alterations of imperial uniforms 🌸)

Also, I had to make a choice here... Do I make the empire more strict when it comes to gender norms and expectations i.e do I put Tarkin in a skirt gkkgkffn like, I already kinda did that with both Tarkin and Krennic keeping their hair long. But in canon imperial uniforms are unisex and the same for everyone, which is great to like know the imperial military (in universe at least) doesn't do sexism a lot.... But once again, the canon uniforms are a bit boring to draw, they don't have the more classy ones you would wear for special occasions and frankly if you want a side to show more gender inequality would you pick the mismatched rebels fighting for their rights and to overthrow the government, or the established force in power that is also incidentally an empire that took inspirations from a real far right party hmmmmm

Let's look at what I made different about the empire in my au, a) Palpatine is a woman, they have an empress but b) said empress force masced her apprentice and made *him* the figure head of her empire. When you think of the empire you don't picture an old woman in a bathrobe, you picture Vader, a tall muscular cyborg with no face a glowy sword and evil telekinesis.... That is gendered in the masculine (still a dyke tho, but random civilians wouldn't know that- they don't even know if he's human). Having a woman lead a fascist empire doesn't make it better- (in my country, France, the far right party has been lead by a woman for the last 20 years and that doesn't make it fucking better)

All this to say I put her in pants fjkdkd tested with a skirt but it felt too uncanny.

And I also made her stand in the worst position to draw (for me at least) : perfectly facing the camera with a stick up her ass and at parade rest so with her hands behind her back fjkddk I struggled so hard to make it look somewhat good, and I'm still not really satisfied- also Peter Cushing's face with a hat that covers his forehead looks very wrong to me fjfkk

But enough about Tarkin ! For Krennic I also modified the uniform :D (for a second time jfofk link to the first post with another version of her uniform), but hers isn't the fancy version, it's very much her work clothes ! Still trying to distinguish her from the classic military, since she is more of an engineer/architect, so she get heels, slutty white gloves and a dramatic cape coat. Also I loved putting her in a very strict outfit but making it a bit messy in small ways kgfkgj one side of it isn't zipped all the way down, and her hair is coming down from her hasty made bun :)))

PS : one must always picture the death star as the third member of this relationship <3

[noirtek]

i love that the motivations of the apprentices were all really just a product of being in the wrong career path. hoffman was a cop who should’ve been an architect. amanda was a drug addict who should’ve been an engineer. lawrence was a surgeon who should’ve been a cult leader. this is what capitalism does to people

[captainkirkk]

✩ MONTHLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

The fics I’ve read and enjoyed for the month of May. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Fandoms included this month:

DC (Batman)

The Goblin Emperor

Star Wars Prequels/ Clone Wars

Conclave (2024)

Stranger Things

DC

beep beep!! by CreamofTomatoSoup

There’s not really a point in owning a car, especially with the cost of insurance. With the threat of student debt looming overhead like a cloud, Bernard can’t afford to buy a car without help, and there’s no way he’ll ever ask Tim. So Bernard doesn’t really drive. He’s happy to let his weirdly specific driving skills get swept under the rug, because the thing he has with Tim still feels delicate and new, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing up that his uncle was in a gang and hey, he just happened to teach Bernard how to drive. Bernard wants to avoid any kind of conversation around crime in Gotham, actually. Especially after what happened in high school. It’s not like he’s ever going to need to drive a getaway car, anyway. As far as Bernard is concerned, it’ll never come up.

Bernard learned to drive from his henchman uncle. The last place he expects to use this skill is at a dinner with his boyfriend's family.

The Goblin Emperor

moderation by astardanced

“Aha!” Csethiro sat up, displacing him somewhat abruptly. “Thou dost admit it, then!” “Admit what?” said Maia bewilderedly, trying to sit up— “That ‘tis my job to hate people on thy behalf,” said Csethiro magnificently, with a rather intense look in her eye that Maia did not entirely trust, even if he did rather like it. “I did not… quite say that…” “Let me deal with Mer Abrevar, husband,” said Csethiro— in a tone she obviously thought was measured, because she looked proud of herself. It was not measured. It was immense.

The 'starsabovethemarshes' Incident by peredain

The following is as close to the full story as I can recover of the Tumblr blog starsabovethemarshes, or, as most people will know it, "that one time someone on Tumblr tried to impersonate Edrehasivar VII".

There isn't much information about the blog still available on the internet, but by compiling screenshots, doing some of my own internet sleuthing, and reaching out to people who were following the blog when it was active, I've been able to construct a general story of what went down.

The Architects by jouissant

In the twentieth year of Edrehasivar VII’s reign, Lord Berenar announced his retirement as Lord Chancellor, and Maia Drazhar fell into a private crisis.

Clone Wars

Ties That Bind by Imagined

Commander Cody cleared his throat subtly. “Erm, may I ask, sir… how old is he?” “I’m nine,” Anakin said. “But really, I promise I won’t be in the way while you fight, Master Obi-Wan. Maybe I can help in a starfighter!” “Sir,” Commander Cody said. He sounded strangled.

Or: The Clone Wars start a week after Qui-Gon dies and Anakin becomes Obi-Wan's Padawan. Burdened with doubts, new responsibilities, and a former slave child to take care of, a twenty-year-old Obi-Wan finds himself adopted by an army of clones. The clones take care of their own, after all—but then again, so does Obi-Wan.

The war is over (we are beginning) by K_R_Closson

The Jedi have been slaughtered, Anakin has turned dark side, and Obi-Wan is being hunted by his former apprentice. When Yoda tells him he needs to fake his death, Obi-Wan agrees. It isn't as though this is new to him. Obi-Wan, Cody, and Rex are put into a deep Force sleep, and Yoda promises to wake them when the galaxy needs them again.

But it isn't Yoda who wakes them. It's a small voice, calling out to a Jedi for help. Obi-Wan wakes up to a quiet head, both Yoda and Anakin are dead. And then he learns thirty years have passed while he's been asleep. With the Jedi Order gone, with Mandalore glassed, with a Empire that has risen and fallen, Obi-Wan, Cody, and Rex must decide what their place is in this new galaxy.

But first, there is a child who needs help. The only clue Obi-Wan has is a Mandalorian in shiny beskar'gam. If they can find one, they can find the other.

Hands Off by Icannotthinkofapenname

Anakin was really enjoying his first few months at the temple. It was safe and peaceful, and all the jedi he'd met were really nice!

And then Quinlan Vos slapped his master's ass.

Iviin’hiibi te Tuur by whitchry9

Part 3 of Iviin’hiibi te Tuur

Obi Wan has never resented the seizures he's experienced, not exactly, but he wasn't particularly fond of them either.

(And then they save the galaxy.)

squeeze it apart, that’s fine by Anonymous

Ventress was right when she said that General Kenobi would never assume Cody’s position beneath her malevolent hands, but her reasoning had been wrong. Cody would never give the General the opportunity to take his place. One of the few comforts that he had allowed himself - the true vow he had permitted himself to make - was that he would never outlive his Jedi.

He’d endure a thousand tortures and a thousand deaths before he subjected himself to a galaxy without General Kenobi in it.

“You’re going to hurt him, Commander Cody,” Ventress whispered, and Cody startled at the sound of his name on her tongue. He did not realise that she even knew it. “I want to pity you. Martyring yourself for a Jedi who wouldn’t take your place. For a Jedi who, once you are done with him, will wish for nothing more than your death.”

Or: Obi-Wan and the 212th are held hostage by Ventress, who contrives of a unique way to torment the Jedi General by pitting his own biology against him. Locked in a cell with his alpha Commander, Obi-Wan Kenobi has to find an escape before his heat takes control.

Do You Want To Meet All My Monsters? by c_m_li (+ podfic)

Part 1 of Dark Star

Obi-Wan Kenobi has been hiding his species all his life. When he is forced to disclose that he isn't even Near-Human, he doesn't get the reaction from the Clone Troopers that he was expecting.

violence in reconstruction by Serie11

“Do you know what I think?” Cody asks, and doesn’t wait for Obi-Wan to reply. “I think that you haven’t slept in forty hours. I think you’ve been using too many stims, even though Bones tries to limit your access to them. I think that you’re currently drunk. I think,” he says, louder, over the top of Obi-Wan’s sound of protest. “That you’re self aware enough to be thinking about the darkness in the Force, and that you’re scared of going too far into it, because you’re good at waging war. You’re very good at it, and you hate that about yourself.”

Obi-Wan makes a small, broken noise, and Cody closes his eyes as if that will stop him from hearing it.

Conclave

life on earth could be heaven by ShowMeAHero

Pope Innocent XIV and Cardinal Thomas Lawrence share a unique relationship.

Vincent and Thomas share something even greater.

or: vincent and thomas fall in love, find their way, and are witnessed by the world in doing so.

this is hungry work by ShowMeAHero

“I know this is difficult. I know you do not like this. But you are starving yourself, Thomas, and God would not see you starved. I would not see you starved.”

Thomas wonders what it says about him that one of those means more than the other— and what it means that this does not bother him as it should, this blasphemous thought, this sacrilegious reprioritization.

“I do not wish to argue with you, my dear Vincent,” Thomas says, voice quiet. “Your concern is kind, but— I am afraid this is only how I am.”

Vincent squeezes his hands.

“You are not your punishments,” Vincent tells him, firm, warm, insistent. “You are not your denial. You are not your sacrifice, Thomas, nor your hunger. You are not your starvation.” His hands shake Thomas’s, a rattle to keep his attention. “You are Thomas. You are human, and you are starving, and you should not be.”

Stranger Things

True Colors by brightloveee

Eddie expects Steve Harrington, who he’s started hooking up with on the down-low, to be a douchey, spoiled jerk. So he pre-empts him. Only, Steve isn’t a jerk. But guess who is.

OR 5 Times Eddie is a Shitty Boyfriend and 5 Times He Gets Better

[nights-at-crystarium]

While I'm ancient-trio-posting, wanna hear a bit about their dynamic?

Hythlodaeus and Hades are old friends, roommates, even. A genuinely mature, established couple. I haven't really thought too far back in time yet, so maybe childhood friends to lovers because no one else in my story has this trope yet. I leave it open-ended for now. What matters is that they're very chill and stable together.

Azem, not-yet-Azem but a mere apprentice of Venat, has a certain secret, harmless to the world, but potentially ranging from laughable, cringy, personally embarrassing to legally punishable, should it be brought in front of the Convocation, like all lies it's doomed to be revealed in time, he already hangs out with one of the Big People and there are talks about Venat's retirement, our little not-yet-Azem feels like he might get recommended, and must find help with his silly secret before that.

Hythlodaeus, Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, has ever been kind and patient with not-yet-Azem's concept submissions, and generally seems like a reliable and open-minded person, so our guy asks for his advice on the matter. Of course he isn't let down, the nitty gritty of it I'll leave for later. The important part: he and Hyth grow closer, and Hades, already being joined at the hip with Hyth, is in on the secret as well. It's just a vulnerability that I use as a means to win over Hades's heart. Be genuine, beg for his help, rely on him, and he's yours.

Venat retires, the new Azem takes the seat, his secret's safe/resolved (forget about it, it's played its role of the glue for our trio), things are chill for a while, the trio grows into a proper throuple, Hades is recommended for the seat of Emet-Selch by both his lovers, but by Azem most ardently (and selfishly: he feels like a white crow among the Convocation and wants another freak on the team. Hades finds it sweet though).

The status quo moves to the known canon where Azem travels a lot, sometimes summons his buddies to his side, he tends to disappear from Amaurot for weeks and months on end, Hyth and Hades are left to themselves, seemingly things are the same as they've always been, but the joy of reuniting with their wayward lover, and the pining when he's gone, is bigger in Hades than Hyth. Of course they, the two mature people holding hands from the beginning of times, don't discuss this.

Azem may not even realize what he's doing- well, ain't that most azems in a nutshell. He just exists, loves his partners, shines for them with equal warmth like sun. It's not that Hyth doesn't like being sunkissed, no, it's Hades who gets a bit too excited, tries to mask that however he can, perhaps HythHades pretend that nothing's changed, but, yknow, subtle cracks. Hades's heart grows more fond due to the time and distance that separate them so often. Of course he's terrified and he sees what this does to the balance of their poly, it's not welcome, but it won't go away.

Enter Hyth's self-esteem issues, and how neatly that weaves into his following sacrifice to bring forth Zodiark. Even though Azem's nowhere to be seen, it's fine, he'll return, it's just a tantrum, the Convocation will forgive him, Hades will be left in good hands, he and Azem seem to be happier without Hyth anyway. (no, no, no, no-) Of course, the latter's left unsaid, only a smile on display and vague words of affirmation for the shellshocked Hades.

Through the sacrifice Hyth drives up his value. He's forever important to Hades now, forever on his mind, his guiding star. I view Hyth's selfless act as selfish too (just as Raha's but he isn't relevant here), a desperate act of a soul not only loving, but desperate for love. Hyth gets what he wanted. In a fucked up way, he's happier as a part of the moon. He never has to contend with the sun again.

[drarryspecificrecs]

H/D Career Fair 2023 : (fics only)

@hd-fan-fair || official masterpost || AO3 || stats : 43 works The Mods : @phoenix-acid & @sassy-cissa Banner © :

@creeeee (official banner)

@pato-roldnart's Close observation (x) Harry: Pet Sitter | Draco: Wizarding Wildlife Illustrator

@pinkelephant42's In Life & Death Harry: Master of Death | Draco: Master of Life

—

All the Good Things and the Bad Things that May Be by @meandminniemcg [E, 10k] Harry: Public Speaker | Draco: Sex Educator

Another Side by @flightinflame [T, 2k] Harry: Nursery Teacher | Draco: Single Dad

Blood Tainted Fingertips by @poison-literature [M, 7k] Harry: Private Investigator | Draco: Serial Killer

Californian Calcite by @moonpeachh [M, 30k] Harry: Client/Trophy boyfriend | Draco: Jeweler

Can’t Pretend by @meloflavor [G, 2k] Harry: Stalker | Draco: English Teacher

A Competitive Cooperation by @dysonrules [T, 20k] Harry: Architect | Draco: Interior Designer

Connecting Lines, Connecting Crimes by @sleepstxtic [M, 15k] Harry: Magi-Geographer | Draco: Cartologist

Death is Not Fit to House a Love by @starlitsilvereyes [E, 20k] Harry: Hit Wizard | Draco: Politician

Full Fathom Five by @sitaz [E, 17k] Harry: Quidditch Coach | Draco: Professional Mermaid

if the bees know by @oflights [T, 19k] Harry: Ghostbuster | Draco: Runes Translator

Just Take Me Home by @phoebe-delia [T, 4k] Harry: Curse-Breaker | Draco: Designated Apparator

Launch me to Ultralife by SquibNation10 [T, 38k] Harry: Gardener / Astronaut | Draco: Astrophysicist

Let's Get Physical by @ravenesse [E, 10k] Harry: Gym Owner/Personal Trainer | Draco: Freelancer

My Own Personal Poltergeist by @maraudersaffair [E, 11k] Harry: Hitwizard | Draco: Crime Scene Cleaner

Once More To Arcady by @apricitydays-lazynights [E, 32k] Harry: Shepherd | Draco: Unspeakable

Playing for Keeps by @peachpety [G, 6k] Harry: Man of Leisure | Draco: Owl Postmaster

Playing Quiddick by xErised [E, 11k] Harry: Quidditch Commentator/Analyst on the WWN | Draco: Quidditch Player

The Plot by tigersilver [T, 15k] Harry: Department of Magical Transportation Agent | Draco: MOM Apprentice - Misuse of Muggle Artefacts

port in a storm by @saltwatergarden [M, 8k] Harry: Curse-Breaker | Draco: Hotelier

Scanning the Skies by Enchanted_Jae [T, 3k] Harry: UFO hunter | Draco: UFO hunter

The Scent of Soft Rains by @dodgerkedavra [E, 20k] Harry: Dragonologist | Draco: Magical Prosthetist

The Sinful Serpent by @rei382 [T, 11k] Harry: Private Investigator | Draco: Stripper

Ten Visits to Fire and Flight: The World of Dragons by @sandervansunshine [E, 17k] Harry: Radio Show Co-Host | Draco: Museum Department Head

Terminal Lucidity by @romaine2424 [G, 3k] Harry: End-of-Life Specialist | Draco: (none)

The Thread that Binds Us by @bubble-gumhead [T, 22k] Harry: Rune Inscriptor | Draco: Pattern Maker for Clothes

To have a Home by @myaulophobia [E, 127k] Harry: Homeless | Draco: Muggle Lawyer (Solicitor)

WanderFull Fit by @resilientkitteh [E, 6k] Harry: Sex Toy Maker | Draco: Sex Toy Tester

Wherever You Go, There You Are by harrows [E, 12k] Harry: Founder of a Nonprofit Organisation | Draco: Muggle Yoga Instructor

Within You Without You by @arminaa8 [E, 39k] Harry: Ministry Advisor | Draco: Mind Healer

A Year In The Life by @ladderofyears [M, 19k] Harry: Broomstick Salesman | Draco: Book Salesman

—

✔ other fests in 2023 ✔ fests in other years ✔ H/D Fan Fair : Food Fair 2022 | Career Fair 2021 | Sex Fair 2020 | Fan Fair 2019 | Food Fair 2018 | Career Fair 2017 | Pet Fair 2016 | Pottermore Fair 2015 | Career Fair 2014 | Book Fair 2013 | Career Fair 2012 | Travel Fair 2010 | Career Fair 2009

[almostwisegalaxy]

Under a grey sky

Bonus part

Older men oc x fem!reader

Reader has a shy character in this story and is in his twenties

Music to listen to for the atmosphere: DtMF_bad Bunny

Debí tirar más fotos de cuando de tuve. Debi darte más besos y abrazos. Las veces que pude...

Translation : I should have taken more photos of when I had it. I should have given you more kisses and hugs. The times I could. (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

Sensitive souls please refrain. Sensitive subject. Death, cancer. I'm not making fun of anything. I'm just writing a story. As they say on Wattpad : I am responsible for what I write, you are responsible for what you read

..................................................................................

It was an evening like any other. The sky was overcast, threatening to rain. Y/n, apprentice baker, was finishing her day. She had spent hours crafting chocolate éclairs and apple tarts, her mind lost in the dream of owning her own bakery. But that night, her thoughts wandered. Too absorbed in calculating her savings, she hadn’t noticed the man crossing at a poorly lit street corner.

The screech of brakes. A thud.

Horrified, Y/n hurriedly got out of her small car. The man on the ground was still breathing, but a thin cut marked his forehead. She immediately called for help, her voice trembling with panic.

Armand opened his eyes in the hospital, disoriented. A dull ache pulsed through his head, and bandages covered his face. Yet what caught his attention was the young woman sitting by his bedside. Y/n was curled up in a chair, nervously twisting a tissue in her hands.

“You’re awake… I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her pleading eyes fixed on him.

Armand, a 39-year-old interior architect, looked at her curiously. Despite the pain, a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Don’t worry… It’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious? I ran you over…”

“And yet, you’re here watching over me,” he replied lightly, trying to reassure her.

Y/n flushed deeply, but he continued, his gaze gentle:

“Go home. I’m fine, I promise.”

She hesitated but eventually obeyed. Yet the image of his comforting smile remained etched in her mind.

A few weeks later, as Y/n was decorating pastries in the bakery where she worked, the doorbell chimed. She glanced up briefly to greet the customer, but her gaze quickly returned to the tart she was preparing.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice.

She abruptly looked up. Standing before her was Armand, well-dressed, his bright smile hiding the slight scar on his forehead. She didn’t recognize him immediately.

“Do you have croissants?” he asked with a disarming ease.

“Yes, of course. Just a moment,” she replied, turning toward the display.

As she placed the croissants in a paper bag, he observed her with a hidden tenderness. She seemed more at ease here, in a world that felt made for her.

“You have a real talent,” he said suddenly.

Y/n blinked, surprised by the remark.

“Thank you… But how can you tell?”

“It’s obvious,” he said warmly. “I can see it in your movements.”

She blushed again, uncomfortable with such a sincere compliment.

Armand became a regular customer. Every morning, he stopped by for a coffee or pastry, finding excuses to exchange a few words with Y/n. He was interested in her work, her dreams.

“So, you want to open your own bakery?” he asked one day, taking a bite of a financier she had made.

She nodded timidly.

“Yes… But it’s still a long way off. I need to save, learn, and find the right place.”

“You’ll make it,” he said with conviction.

His encouragements touched her, but she never dared to ask him personal questions. She was too shy to dig deeper. Meanwhile, Armand found himself increasingly fascinated by her. Her passion, her reserve, and even her clumsiness made him smile.

One evening, as he worked on an architectural project in his office, Armand found his thoughts drifting. He realized he looked forward to seeing her every morning. But he couldn’t ignore the age gap between them.

“She’s in her twenties,” he murmured to himself. “She has so much to live, so much to discover.”

Yet he couldn’t deny the emotions growing within him. Every smile, every exchanged word gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

One day, as he waited in line at the bakery, he placed a book on the counter. It was a French pastry manual, thick and adorned with vibrant photos.

“For you,” he said with a smile.

Y/n stared at him, puzzled.

“Why…?”

“Because I believe in your dreams,” he said simply.

She clutched the book to her chest, moved by his gesture.

“Thank you… It’s… it’s a lot.”

For the first time, she looked up at him and held his gaze a little longer. An invisible butterfly stirred in Armand’s stomach.

Their relationship evolved slowly, like dough rising under a damp cloth. Y/n found herself waiting for his visits, listening for the bell to chime. Armand, for his part, took his time, respecting her pace, admiring every facet of her personality.

One day, as they shared a brioche fresh from the oven, he softly murmured:

“Y/n… You’re like this brioche.”

She looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re soft. And… you bring a warmth that isn’t always noticed at first, but it lingers long after.”

She blushed, lowering her eyes, but this time, she didn’t look away completely.

It was the beginning of a fragile yet sincere love, built on glances, gestures, and shared dreams. A love that, like a good pastry, required patience and care.

---

Weeks Passed, but Armand’s Ambition Remained Intact

Weeks went by, but Armand’s ambition remained unshaken. He was a determined man, always immersed in his work, pushing his limits day after day. His architectural projects consumed more of his life than he cared to admit, and every minute of inaction felt like wasted time. Yet deep inside, something grew stronger every time he crossed paths with Y/n: love.

But he was caught in a spiral. He saw their age difference as an undeniable obstacle he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want Y/n to get lost in a relationship that, in his mind, had no future. She was young, full of dreams, and he… he was already in a different phase of life. He had made choices, sacrificed moments of leisure to achieve his goals.

One evening, after an especially long day, Armand went to the bakery as usual, hoping for a light conversation, a little comfort in Y/n’s small gestures. But something wasn’t right. The stress of his job, his grueling hours, the constant pressure, and lack of sleep weighed heavily on him. He entered the bakery, heading toward the counter, his tired gaze fixed on her.

“Hello,” she said softly, a shy smile on her lips as always. She didn’t know he’d had an especially difficult day.

“I need a coffee, strong,” he murmured, his tone sharper than he intended.

She looked at him for a moment, surprised by the coldness in his voice. But she didn’t respond, simply preparing his order with calm concentration. When she handed him the cup, their hands brushed briefly, and he felt a dull tension rise within him. She was so gentle, so calm. She seemed worlds away from his own turmoil.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about his job, his frustrations. But instead of responding, his words came out more abruptly than he intended.

“Why do you always worry about everyone? Don’t you have anything better to do? It’s not your job to take everything on yourself.”

She flinched, her eyes widening at his harsh tone. He immediately realized his mistake, but he couldn’t seem to regain control of the situation. He had acted impulsively, without thinking. The fatigue and stress had overridden his usual gentleness.

Y/n remained silent, her gaze lowering. She didn’t know what to say, but the hurt was clear on her face. Normally so understanding, so kind, she now felt deeply wounded.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a long pause. “I… I just wanted to offer you a little… comfort.”

He looked at her, ashamed of his words. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that, but his nerves were frayed. Watching her retreat in silence made his heart ache.

The next morning, Armand arrived at the bakery earlier than usual, his mind tormented by the events of the previous evening. He had spent the night reflecting on his behavior, knowing he owed her an apology. But seeing her behind the counter, arranging the morning pastries, he realized he couldn’t bear to hurt her any further.

He waited for her to look up at him. When she finally did, he approached cautiously, a bit hesitant.

“Y/n… I’m sorry about yesterday. I was… I was overwhelmed, and I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and he saw doubt flicker in her eyes. He knew his words had deeply hurt her, and the thought gnawed at him.

“It wasn’t about you,” he added, his tone calmer, almost gentle. “It’s just… it’s hard for me to balance everything I need to do.”

She looked at him for a moment, then lowered her gaze, as if his apology wasn’t enough to erase the sting of his behavior. But instead of retreating into her usual silence, she offered a small gesture of understanding.

“I understand,” she said softly, but with a gentleness that instantly eased his heart. “It’s just… sometimes, we forget to rest. And that hurts you too, doesn’t it?”

Armand stood in silence for a moment, surprised by her insight. He hadn’t thought about it that way. He had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t realized how much the tension was hurting him from the inside.

“Yes,” he said after a pause, his voice rougher than he intended. “Sometimes, I’m so focused on what I want to accomplish that I forget to stop, to breathe.”

She nodded slightly, a timid smile brushing her lips. She understood what it meant to be swept up in dreams and ambitions, forgetting to care for oneself.

That evening, Armand went home replaying their conversation in his mind. He knew he was still far from understanding everything that was happening between him and Y/n. But one thing was clear: he loved her, and he didn’t want her to suffer because of his own shortcomings.

He also knew he had to change. Not for her. But for himself. And perhaps, in that process, they could learn to understand and love each other in a healthier, gentler way. Because Y/n deserved to be cherished, with no room for anger or exhaustion.

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if finding balance between his dreams and his feelings was the true key to his happiness.

---

Armand’s project had consumed every fiber of his being. For months, he had poured his heart and soul into it, investing his time, ideas, and ambitions. He had imagined, designed, and created with the hope that his work would finally be recognized. He knew the moment was approaching—the moment his project would be unveiled to the public, the moment his name would finally be associated with success. And that moment came.

But it wasn’t what he had envisioned.

The day the project was praised, with critics unanimously lauding its quality, Armand felt a strange coldness seep into him. It wasn’t pride. Nor elation. It was emptiness. A void. His superior, someone who hadn’t contributed a single idea, had taken all the glory. His name shone in the headlines, while Armand’s was nowhere to be found.

He was devastated. And yet, he felt nothing. No anger. No frustration. Only an endless fatigue, a deep exhaustion.

He wanted to scream, to overturn everything around him, but his muscles were paralyzed. He couldn’t even move. He couldn’t scream. His mind was blank, as if everything he had lived, everything he had accomplished, had been swallowed by an ocean of silence. His hands trembled slightly, but he couldn’t even lift them. It all seemed so futile, so insignificant.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the sense of loss. Of betrayal. Of frustration. He hated himself for not being able to feel the injustice more intensely, for not being able to scream, to fight. Why couldn’t he react the way he wanted? Why did he feel like an empty man, a broken man without the strength to get back up?

That evening, he returned home, devoid of any enthusiasm. He collapsed on his couch, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. The air in the room felt heavy, almost oppressive. It was as if he were breathing in a space too small, drowning in a whirlwind of thoughts he couldn’t even organize.

It was far too late when he finally stepped outside. He didn’t even know why he left or what he was hoping for. Maybe it was the anxiety driving him out, or perhaps the need to be alone with his thoughts in the silence of the night.

The park was deserted, lit only by a few solitary streetlights. He sat on a bench under one of them and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cool night breeze brush against his face. The sounds of the city felt distant, muffled by the stillness of the place. He felt so far from everything, so disconnected from reality.

That’s when he saw her. Y/n. She was walking alone in the park, probably after her workday. When she noticed him, she stopped for a moment, seemingly surprised to see him there at such a late hour. He slowly lifted his head to look at her, expressionless. He didn’t have the strength to smile. Nor the strength to pretend.

Y/n approached cautiously, her gaze uncertain but gentle. She seemed hesitant, unsure if she should disturb him. But she didn’t need words to know she should sit beside him. She said nothing, offering only her quiet presence.

The silence that settled between them wasn’t heavy but rather… soothing. She didn’t need to ask questions. Somehow, she knew he needed this moment of calm.

And that’s when Armand felt the first tears well up. He tried to hold them back, to stop them from falling, but it was no use. They began to stream down his face, slowly, gently, like a river cascading down a mountain, carrying away all the pain, all the frustration he had suppressed for so long.

The tears wouldn’t stop, one after another, breaking the silence of the night. He let himself go, giving in to the flood of emotions he had ignored for far too long. His body trembled as he leaned toward Y/n, unable to control the shaking.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him. He let himself lean into her, his face buried in her shoulder, the tears flowing endlessly. There was no shame in the gesture. No pride. Just the need to feel safe, to let go.

Y/n, silent, held him gently. She didn’t say anything, but she was there for him. That was all that mattered. She could feel the pain in his movements, in his cries, and she knew he wasn’t asking for anything other than understanding, support without judgment.

In her arms, Armand allowed himself to completely let go, his heart heavy but unburdened from the weight that had suffocated him for so long. He had finally stopped holding back his emotions, stopped repressing his pain. Y/n offered him the freedom to cry without judgment, without pressure.

Eventually, the tears subsided, though the emptiness lingered. Yet something had shifted. That emptiness, though still present, felt less insurmountable. He knew he wouldn’t face it alone. Y/n had accepted him without demanding answers, without imposing expectations. She had simply offered her heart, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged.

---

The silence stretched between them, but this time, it was soothing. Y/n didn’t move; she stayed there, her arms around him, like an anchor in a calm sea. She understood that sometimes, words weren’t necessary. She felt the tension in his muscles gradually ease, and she knew that, little by little, he was regaining control over his emotions.

Armand eventually pulled away slightly, his breathing still uneven. His eyes were red, but they no longer held that empty expression. In Y/n’s embrace, he had found something precious—a peace he hadn’t sought but that had found him. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her.

“Thank you…” he murmured, his voice broken but full of gratitude.

Y/n smiled softly, her eyes gentle and reassuring. She didn’t need a response, but her gaze spoke volumes. She wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was simply there, by his side, and that was enough.

“I’m here, Armand,” she said simply, her voice soft but filled with tenderness. Nothing more needed to be said.

A faint smile crossed Armand’s lips, but it wasn’t forced. It was genuine—a gratitude he never thought he could feel so purely.

He stood up slowly, taking a deep breath. The night was calm around them, but something within him had shifted. A weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had lifted, and he felt lighter, even if only for the moment.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he offered, his tone now calmer.

She shook her head gently, a small hint of mischief in her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. But thank you. It’s… nice to be here, with you.”

He nodded, accepting her answer, though he felt a new warmth stir within him. It wasn’t just gratitude. He felt a connection, something deep silently weaving between them, without the need for words to express it. He knew that what he had just shared with her, this moment of vulnerability, could never be forgotten.

They remained there for a little while longer, enjoying the tranquility of the night. At some point, though, the silence became lighter, almost playful.

Armand turned to Y/n, his eyes now holding a spark of admiration he had felt for her since their first meeting. He looked at her, and this time, he didn’t see her as timid, fragile, or different from him. No. He saw her simply as Y/n—the person who, with a simple gesture of understanding, had brought him a kind of calm, a kind of peace he hadn’t known for a long time.

“You know, you’re really incredible,” he said softly, his voice both sincere and filled with tenderness.

Y/n blushed slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver from his. She was used to hiding her emotions, retreating into shyness. But that night, something about him encouraged her to be more open.

“Thank you,” she replied with a small smile. “But… I think we help each other.”

He smiled at her response. He didn’t need more words. He understood. They understood each other.

The days that followed felt different. Armand woke up in the morning with a slightly lighter burden on his shoulders. He continued to work, but he found himself appreciating the small things around him—things he had neglected for far too long. He spent more time reflecting on his life choices, his priorities, and what he truly wanted to achieve. But more than that, he started considering how he let his ambitions consume him.

And Y/n. He thought of her often. He hadn’t immediately seen her as someone who could help him through his moments of weakness, but he was beginning to realize that she might be the one who had shown him the path to a balance he had never sought before but was now striving to find.

For her part, Y/n seemed calmer too. She hadn’t tried to force her way into his world or immediately uncover the reasons behind his pain. She had simply listened, offering her support without expectations. She had always been a determined, dream-filled woman, but she understood that life had its own rhythm and that sometimes, stepping back was all it took to see things differently.

It wasn’t a fiery, explosive relationship, nor an all-consuming love story. It was gentler, calmer, like a quiet river. A love that grew in small gestures, in shared silences, in quiet laughter, and late-night conversations. They were learning about each other slowly but surely.

Armand knew he still had battles to fight. He also knew his responsibilities would pull him back into the whirlwind of work. But what he knew even more was that Y/n, with her quiet light and her gentle strength, would always be there, by his side. And perhaps, this budding relationship—fragile and uncertain as it might be—would become the key to a balance he had long sought without realizing it.

---

The little bakery, bathed in soft, warm light, was soothingly quiet. The last customers had long since left, and only Y/n remained behind the counter, meticulously tidying up the utensils, her precise movements reflecting her love for her craft. Armand stood in front of her, his hands buried in his pockets, looking unusually nervous.

He had rehearsed this confession in his head dozens of times. He had written a letter, carefully folded in the inside pocket of his jacket, just in case he forgot everything he wanted to say. But now, standing there in front of her, his thoughts seemed to unravel with each heartbeat.

Y/n finally looked up at him, intrigued by his uncharacteristic silence.

“Armand? Is something wrong?” she asked softly, her voice filled with genuine concern.

He pulled out the letter, hesitating.

“I… I have something to tell you,” he said, his voice rough, almost inaudible.

He placed the letter on the counter, but as he was about to hand it to her, his hand accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee left nearby. The brown liquid spread across the paper in an instant, soaking the carefully written words until the ink became a blur of illegible smudges.

Y/n, initially surprised, watched the scene before bursting into laughter.

“Oh no… You really planned everything, didn’t you?” she said, her playful smile lighting up her face.

Armand, initially panicked, began to laugh nervously too.

“Yes… Well, not exactly this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.

Y/n’s laughter faded gently, but the smile remained. She looked at him, curious, waiting for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. So much for the letter. There was no escape now.

“Y/n… I’ll be honest—I’m terrible at expressing how I feel, especially about something this important. But I’m going to try.”

She stood still, her hands folded on the counter, her eyes fixed on him.

“For a while now, I… I’ve been struggling with how I feel about you. Not because I doubt what it is, but because I doubt… myself.”

She furrowed her brows slightly but said nothing, giving him the time he needed to find his words.

“You’re young, Y/n, full of dreams, talent, and life. You have your whole future ahead of you. And me… I’m…”

He paused, searching for the right word, but none came.

“I’m already in a world where I’m fighting just to stay standing. Where I work too much, where I’m always tired. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m just… an obstacle for you.”

Y/n opened her mouth, ready to protest, but he raised a hand to stop her gently.

“Wait, let me finish, please.”

She nodded, though her gaze softened.

“For the longest time, I told myself you’d be better off with someone else. Someone who could give you everything you deserve. Someone who could make you happy in ways I can’t. But every time I tried to let go of that idea… I couldn’t. Because the truth is, I want to be that person for you. Even if I’m imperfect. Even if I’m not the obvious choice.”

He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability he had never shown anyone before.

“I love you, Y/n. Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in a simple, honest way. I love you because you’re you—with your shy smiles, your passion for what you do, your way of always seeing the best in others… And I know I’m clumsy, that maybe I don’t deserve this, but I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Y/n, her cheeks slightly flushed, seemed to be searching for the right words, her fingers playing with the edge of her apron. Then, slowly, she smiled.

“You know, Armand,” she murmured, “you’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“What I love about you isn’t some perfection you think you have to reach. What I love is you. Your clumsiness, your seriousness, the way you look at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I’ve never wanted someone perfect. I just want you.”

This time, it was his turn to be speechless. She leaned slightly over the counter, reducing the distance between them.

“I love you too, Armand,” she added, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Even if you’re incredibly clumsy sometimes.”

He burst out laughing, relieved, and this time, the laughter was pure, sincere, full of a joy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So… you’ll have me, despite everything?” he asked, a hesitant smile on his lips.

She nodded, her smile widening.

“Yes. But only if you promise never to write letters next to a cup of coffee again.”

They laughed together once more, and in that shared moment of joy, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. It wasn’t a perfect confession, nor a scene straight out of a romantic movie. It was clumsy, sincere, full of laughter and shyness. But it was them. Just them.

---

The months had flown by, and their relationship had blossomed in a quiet, unexpected way. Armand and Y/n had found their rhythm, balancing Armand’s busy workdays with the long hours Y/n spent in her bakery perfecting her recipes. Their love was sincere, built on small daily gestures and shared silences that spoke volumes.

They had celebrated Y/n’s victory in the pastry competition together. That day, she had climbed the stage, trembling but radiant, to receive her trophy. Armand had watched her with unwavering pride, as if she had just reached for the stars. They spent the evening laughing and celebrating in a way that felt simple and true to them.

But a few weeks after that moment of glory, their happiness was brutally interrupted.

Y/n had begun feeling pain in her lower abdomen and a fatigue she could no longer ignore. At first, she thought it was due to stress or overwork and delayed seeking medical advice. But one day, Armand insisted she see a doctor.

The diagnosis hit like a thunderbolt: terminal cancer, already too advanced to treat.

When Y/n walked out of the consultation room, her legs trembled. Armand, who had been waiting in the hallway, stood up immediately upon seeing her expression.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, with trembling hands, she reached out and grabbed his.

“I… I only have a few months left,” she finally murmured, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Armand felt his heart shatter, as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. But he didn’t let the panic take over. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as if that simple gesture could shield her from everything.

The shock of the diagnosis changed them. Y/n, initially terrified, found the strength to smile again thanks to Armand. He, though devastated inside, became her pillar of support. Together, they made a decision: they would not let this illness steal the time they had left.

They began crossing dreams off Y/n’s list. A weekend in a small cabin by the lake, where they fished together and stargazed. A day spent at a bustling market, tasting dishes they’d never dared to try before. And, of course, hours spent in the bakery’s kitchen, experimenting with new recipes Y/n had dreamed up.

One evening, as they kneaded brioche dough together, Y/n suddenly stopped, her hands covered in flour.

“You know, Armand…” she began hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I think… even if I’d known all of this beforehand… I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Nothing?”

She nodded, a sad but sincere smile on her lips.

“Because meeting you, loving you… it was worth it.”

Armand felt his throat tighten. He stepped closer and gently wiped a smear of flour from her forehead.

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmured.

A few months after the diagnosis, Y/n was weaker, but she refused to let it defeat her. It was the day of the event they had planned to share her final pastry creations with her loved ones and loyal customers.

The little bakery was filled with laughter and joy. Armand watched her from a distance, marveling at the way she lit up the room despite her visible exhaustion. At one point, she caught his gaze and walked over to him.

“You know, I saved the best for you,” she said, handing him a small box adorned with a ribbon.

He opened it to find a delicate dessert, carefully crafted.

“I named it ‘Renaissance,’ because… even when something ends, there’s always a part of life that remains.”

He looked at her, moved, and whispered:

“Y/n, you are my renaissance.”

That night, under a starry sky, they sat on the bench in the park where it had all begun. Y/n, nestled against him, felt a tear roll down her cheek.

“Armand… you’ve given me so much more than I could have imagined,” she murmured.

He shook his head.

“You’re the one who’s taught me everything. To love, to live…”

She looked up at him, her tired eyes filled with love.

“Then promise me something,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“When I’m gone, live for both of us. Live so fully that people will say Y/n taught you how to smile.”

Armand felt the tears well up but nodded, unable to speak. He etched that moment into his heart, as an eternal promise.

Y/n couldn’t change her fate, but she had turned their love into a light that would never fade.

---

The months had passed, and Y/n’s condition had worsened. Yet, she tried to maintain her smile, like a shield against the pain—for Armand, and for herself.

That morning, Armand arrived at Y/n’s place with a box filled with croissants he had carefully chosen from a bakery she particularly loved. But when he knocked on the door and she didn’t answer, a wave of worry washed over him.

“Y/n? It’s me, Armand.”

The silence was oppressive. After a few moments of waiting, he pulled out the spare key she had entrusted to him. When he opened the door, the familiar scent of lavender and flour greeted him, but the atmosphere felt strangely still. He hurried upstairs, his heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

In the bedroom, Y/n was still lying in bed. She slowly opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, but something in her gaze had changed. She seemed… distant. Armand approached her, and that’s when he noticed the strands of hair scattered across the pillow. Her once vibrant hair was almost all gone.

She reached a hand to her head, then lowered her eyes to the strands. A faint “Ah…” escaped her lips, barely audible, as if she no longer had the strength to react.

Armand felt a dull pain crush his heart. That indifference, that emptiness in her voice—it was worse than any tears she could have shed.

“Y/n…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.

But she didn’t respond. Slowly, mechanically, she got up to get ready.

He stayed there, motionless, his eyes fixed on the empty pillow, his trembling fingers clutching the wrinkled sheet. She was moving forward, but he felt her slipping away, like a wisp of wind he couldn’t hold onto.

A few months later, despite Y/n’s obvious weakness, Armand organized a small evening just for the two of them. He wanted to give her a moment of lightness, a little escape.

They laughed. They talked about memories, unfinished dreams, and even joked about how Armand could never bake a cake without burning it.

Y/n, tired but glowing, rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know… I think I’ve never been happier than I’ve been with you,” she murmured.

Armand gently stroked what was left of her hair and kissed her forehead.

“You are my life, Y/n.”

She looked up at him, a peaceful smile on her lips.

“Then keep living, even after me.”

That was their last conversation.

That night, Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He preferred to watch her, to engrave every detail into his memory: the softness of her features, the rhythm of her breath in the silence, the fragile warmth of her hand in his.

In the early morning, sunlight timidly peeked through the curtains. Armand opened his eyes and immediately felt something was wrong. Y/n was still—too still.

“Y/n?” he called softly, his voice filled with a hope he knew was futile.

He touched her cheek—it was cold.

“No… no,” he murmured, tears welling in his eyes.

He held her in his arms, gently rocking her, as if saying a final goodbye. Her face was peaceful, as though she had simply fallen asleep after a beautiful evening. But for Armand, the world collapsed in that moment.

The days that followed were dark, but Armand found strength in the memories they had shared. Y/n had taught him how to love, how to live fully, and he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him to drown in despair.

He kept the notebook where she had written her recipes and thoughts, and he worked to keep the promise he had made to her: to live for the both of them.

A year later, Armand opened a small bakery, which he named Y/n’s Light. Each creation carried a piece of her, a tribute to her talent and her brilliance.

And every morning, when he saw the smiles of customers enjoying what she had inspired, he felt her presence beside him. Y/n may not have had all the time she deserved, but her love—her light—was eternal.

---

Days passed, yet Armand continued to visit the cemetery regularly. Under the weeping willow, Y/n rested in the peaceful spot he had chosen carefully for her. He often spoke to the grave as if she were still there, sharing his achievements, doubts, and even the mundane stories of his day.

He decorated the gravestone with care. At Christmas, he brought small garlands and winter flowers. At Easter, he left colorful eggs and sweets he had prepared while thinking of her. The engraved photo on the stone smiled back at him, soft and almost alive.

But one day, something changed.

As part of his new project—renovating an orphanage—Armand immersed himself in his work. He wanted to create a warm, welcoming space where children could feel all the love they deserved.

One afternoon, while discussing the plans with a nun, he passed by the nursery. His gaze was drawn to a group of infants sleeping peacefully, their soft breaths filling the room with a calming rhythm.

That’s when he noticed a little girl, apart from the others. She cooed softly, observing the world with curious but timid eyes. Her cries were gentle, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether she should ask for attention.

Armand froze, his heart clenching. She reminded him of Y/n. Not physically, but in the fragile sweetness she radiated.

In the days that followed, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The idea of adopting her became an undeniable calling, almost as if Y/n had sent him a sign.

A few weeks later, after completing all the necessary procedures, he finally welcomed the little girl into his home. He named her Y/n, in honor of the woman who had changed his life.

Four months passed. Little Y/n clung to Armand as if afraid he might disappear. Her smile, her clumsy laughter, her first attempts to stand on her tiny legs—everything about her rekindled a light he thought he had lost.

One morning, Armand made a decision. He wanted to introduce little Y/n to her “mother.”

He prepared a simple picnic, packing bottles for the baby and snacks for himself.

When he arrived at the grave, he paused for a moment, his eyes on Y/n’s engraved photo.

“Hello, Y/n,” he murmured.

Little Y/n, nestled against him, babbled softly, her big curious eyes following the willow leaves dancing in the wind. Armand knelt before the grave, spread out the blanket he had brought, and gently placed the baby on it.

“I brought someone to meet you today,” he said, a fragile smile on his lips.

He sat facing the gravestone and placed little Y/n on his lap.

“This is Y/n. She has your name. I couldn’t think of a more perfect name for her…”

He ran a tender hand through the baby’s short, soft hair as she played with a fallen willow leaf.

“She’s incredible, you know. Every day, she reminds me that life can still be beautiful, even after everything.”

He spoke for hours, sharing stories, thoughts, and promises he wanted to keep.

“I’m doing my best to be a good father. It’s not always easy… sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. But she trusts me, Y/n, just like you trusted me.”

The little girl let out a joyful cry as she spotted a butterfly fluttering nearby. Armand laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard from himself in a long time.

“You see? Even a butterfly fascinates her. She has your way of finding beauty everywhere.”

He leaned forward slightly, bringing little Y/n closer to the gravestone as if to introduce her properly to her mother.

“ Say hi to Mama” he whispered tenderly.

The baby didn’t understand what was happening, but when she saw the photo on the grave, she cheerfully held out a flower she had picked earlier and babbled joyfully. The gesture brought a smile to Armand’s face.

“See, Y/n? This little one already loves you.”

As the sun began to set, Armand rose slowly, holding little Y/n close to him.

"In another life, I hope it's you and me... I beg God that it's still you and me. I hope we will be happy together, Maybe we can love each other and... grow old together?" The little y/n in his arms suddenly lets out a chirp, as if to make her presence felt. Armand laughs despite his tears that threaten to flow. "Yes, and that the three of us can form a beautiful and happy family" he said, playing with his daughter's little hand. "Until then, I'll take care of her for both of us. Promise, my love."

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking at the gravestone one last time. “Thank you for everything you’ve given me.”

He placed one final flower on the grave before walking away.

On the way home, little Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, walked with a lighter step. That day, under the weeping willow, he felt something shift. It wasn’t a goodbye, but a new chapter—a bridge between the love he had lost and the love he had found.

And he knew he would return to that willow, again and again, to share the joys and sorrows of the life he was building for the two of them.

..................................................................................

Next part

Tags list : @elizalabs3 @slvt4her

[filurig]

laerkki (alt. lärkki) and ranun (bäckahäst för buttercup, the flower). laerkki is a trainee of the Kaskin Sickeclaws, basically an organisation which encompasses the nattramn settlement Kaskin's defenses. ranun is an apprentice with the Ehrumneh Stonestackers - a group of architects from the bäckahäst group Ehrumneh who take on jobs ranging from their own settlement, to other bäckahäst groups as well as from Kaskin as they're close in proximity.

the two become unlikely friends as an event involving human aggression brings them to one another.

laerkki and ranun don't live during the events of pareidolia - in fact, they lived around 100 years earlier, during the late 1700s/ early 1800s.

[normavasquez]

Does what we do in life matter so much? Or is it what we don't do that carries weight? - Elif Shafak The Architect's Apprentice

[fatherfigurefusion]

Randomly generating Ultimate Talents for the DRDT cast and ranking them on how fitting they are (Kill/Cure Edition):

Teruko Tawaki, Ultimate Pawnbroker

6/10: Admittedly, I know next to nothing about pawnbroking. But I love the image of Teruko owning a pawnshop alongside her brother, and it is also a creative talent for a protagonist.

Xander Matthews, Ultimate Mayor

9/10: I could easily imagine Xander being an excellent mayor! It could factor into his backstory of living in Chariton and wanting to fight against society's higher-ups by becoming the higher ups.

Eden Tobisa, Ultimate Architect

10/10: In a way, architecture is kind of like clockmaking on a larger scale, so it fits.

Hu Jing, Ultimate Extreme Couponer

5/10: Hu Jing but a cheapskate suburban mom is a cursed concept.

J Moreno, Ultimate Test Subject

9/10: Mariabella Rosales, but she is basically Shou Tucker.

David Chiem, Ultimate Forum Admin

7/10: Got two sides and accounts: a polite moderator and someone who performs acts that go against the mod.

Veronika Grebenschikova, Ultimate Stuntwoman

10/10: Veronika's dream talent.

Arturo Giles, Ultimate Angler

3/10: Can't really see it.

Levi Fontana, Ultimate Yoga Guru

9/10: They mistake his apathy for tranquility, and that's why he's good at his job.

Ace Markey, Ultimate Activist

8/10: Love the concept of "Keyboard Warrior" Ace. Someone who will call The Man every insult online, but would run back home if he even sees a cop in real life.

Min Jeung, Ultimate Tailor

8/10: She just has the vibes.

Whit Young, Ultimate Apprentice

8/10: You just know that he would pull random skills to surprise people. This could factor into providing for his single-parent household.

Charles Cuevas, Ultimate Theorist

10/10: Perfect talent for our favorite know-it-all.

Arei Nageishi, Ultimate Epidemiologist

6/10: Arei, but she unleashes deadly diseases on anyone who bullies her.

Nico Hakobyan, Ultimate Broadway Dancer

5/10: As much as Broadway would be a perfect home for this canonically-nonbinary character, Nico seems like they would rather die than dance on stage.

Rose Lacroix, Ultimate Local Hero

8/10: Odd how Rose keeps getting physical talents, because I can only imagine she switches to her more heroic persona in her sleep.

[sagewraith]

We’re mortals. Decisions are sheep; habits, the shepherd.

— The Architect's Apprentice, Elif Shafak