Not with the usual groan of ancient stone, but something⦠lighter. As if even the Underworld itself knew who was arriving and chose, just this once, to behave.
I told myself I would not mark the day so noticeably this year. I have centuries of practice in restraint. Entire eras have passed where I have held the line between longing and dignity with admirable precision.
The asphodel fields seem less grey. The torches burn a touch warmer, though I gave no such command. Cerberus, traitor that he is, abandoned his post the moment he sensed her footsteps and nearly knocked me aside in his enthusiasm. I did not reprimand him.
She walked in with that quiet brightness she carries, like spring refusing to be forgotten even here. She greeted the shades. She remembers them, which is more than most living souls ever manage. One reached for her hand, trembling, and she didnβt pull away. She never does.
It is a strange thing, ruling a place defined by endings, and then witnessing someone who embodies return.
We spoke, briefly. Nothing grand. No declarations, no dramatics worthy of the poets who insist on exaggerating everything about us. She asked how things had been. I said, βOrderly.β She smiled in that knowing way, as if she could see the corners I do not show.
I had chambers prepared, of course. Fresh pomegranate branches arranged by the windows. (Yes, I am aware how that sounds. No, I will not be taking notes on subtlety.) The river ran a little quieter tonight. Even the Furies seemed⦠less inclined toward screaming.
I am not foolish enough to pretend this is permanence. Six months. The old agreement still holds, as it must. The world above needs her, and I⦠understand that.
Understanding does not make the departure easier. But that is a concern for another day.
And for a place that holds every sorrow ever whispered into existence, that feels like a small, defiant miracle.