Death's Echo

Chapter 6: Moments to Midnight

Agatha held Rio as her sobs racked through her body, each one shaking them both, like a storm that had finally broken after centuries of silence. She didn't speak—there were no words that could heal this, no magic strong enough to erase what had been done. So, she simply held on, her fingers tangled in Rio's hair, her cheek resting against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of the only person who had ever known her completely.

The minutes passed in a blur, time slipping away, but Agatha didn't care. The world outside could end, the shadows could swallow them whole, and it wouldn't matter. All that mattered was the woman in her arms, the shattered pieces of Rio she cradled so carefully, as if she could somehow mend them by sheer will.

Rio's sobs slowly subsided, the rawness of her grief giving way to a heavy, almost unbearable silence.

But Agatha didn't let go.

She couldn't.

She wasn't sure if she ever would.

How could she, after everything?

After all the pain, all the misunderstanding, all the years spent blaming each other for a loss that had destroyed them both?

Letting go wasn't an option.

Rio's breathing slowed, but her body was still pressed tightly against Agatha's, as if she, too, was afraid to let go. Agatha could feel Rio's heartbeat against her own chest, still rapid, but calming, settling into a slow, steady rhythm.

Agatha closed her eyes, her hand gently stroking Rio's hair, her lips brushing against her forehead in soft, almost imperceptible kisses. The room was still, save for the distant roar of the storm outside and the relentless ticking of the clock. That sound, tick, tok, tick, tok, echoing louder now, reminding her that time was running out. The end was creeping closer, minute by minute.

"I'm sorry," Agatha whispered again, her voice barely audible, the words more for herself than for Rio. She wasn't sure how many times she had said it now, wasn't sure if it even mattered anymore, but she couldn't stop. It was like the apology had become a part of her, a mantra she clung to in the hope that somehow, it might make a difference.

"I know," Rio whispered back, her voice rough, exhausted, but soft.

Agatha's chest tightened at the choice of words, the same ones that had hung in the air earlier, heavy with meaning. She couldn't help but replay them in her mind.

"I know every nook and cranny of your heart, Agatha Harkness. Even when you hurt me the most, when you pushed me to the edge, I knew... I knew you were sorry. You didn't have to say it, because I've always known."

And just like before they hit her with full force, like a wave crashing against her already fragile defenses. Agatha had spent centuries burying her regrets, her apologies, convincing herself that it was easier to stay angry, to stay hurt. She had built walls so high around her grief that she never allowed herself to imagine that Rio might have already forgiven her—or worse, that Rio had never blamed her at all.

And that was the most heartbreaking truth of all, wasn't it? That Rio had always known. Even in the worst moments, when Agatha had pushed her away, when she had screamed and lashed out, when she had said things meant to wound—Rio had known.

Agatha felt a sob rising in her throat, one she wasn't sure she could stop. The realization of how much pain she had carried, needlessly, hit her like a punch to the gut. She had been punishing herself all this time, thinking that Rio saw her as the villain, as the one who had failed their son, who had failed them.

But Rio had always seen her, the real her—the woman who was broken and angry, yes, but also full of love, even when she couldn't show it.

Agatha closed her eyes, her fingers tightening in Rio's hair, as if holding on to her could somehow make up for the years of distance, the years of pain. The weight of it all was too much, and for the first time in centuries, Agatha let herself feel the full depth of her own guilt, her own grief.