Remember Me, Saint Maria

The wind moaned through the city like a lover mourning something long lost. It carried the scent of spring—honeysuckle, yes—but beneath it, a darker note pulsed. Rich. Metallic. Like sin wrapped in sugar. Like memory dipped in blood. It kissed her skin, warm and whispering, as if the air itself ached for her. It lingered against the curve of her throat, the soft underside of her jaw—places most never dared to touch. It lied to her. That warmth. It whispered of peace, of comfort, of a world without monsters. But Maria knew monsters well. She walked like a secret. Like something sacred. Her shoes barely touched the ground, steps too light, too careful—as if the world might crack beneath her if she dared too much weight. Her uniform, pressed and neat, betrayed her in motion. It clung where it shouldn't. It shifted when the wind grew greedy. Hemline grazing the tops of her thighs—just enough to bait the darkness that watched from every corner. And the darkness did watch. Old men. Hollow men. Hungry men. Not because she teased them. Because she didn’t. Maria was silence incarnate. She didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile. She didn’t offer her body with lashes lowered and lips parted. She didn’t need to. She existed. And that alone was enough to unravel them. Her golden-brown hair shimmered like threads of sunlight woven into a noose. Her eyes—oceans that had seen too much—held a stillness that made men forget their gods. They weren't the eyes of a girl born to this world. They were the eyes of something remembered in prayers and forgotten in nightmares. Maria was not innocent. No. Innocence was soft. Fragile. Maria was untouched—and that was far more dangerous. She radiated danger wrapped in holiness, like the untouched pages of a forbidden scripture. A girl who didn’t need to be claimed to feel claimed by the very cosmos. Men felt her when she passed—not in flesh, but in pulse. The ache. The want. The universe knew her name. Even the sky bowed for her. Sometimes she'd stop—suddenly, silently—as if some distant voice had called her. Her head tilted back, those lips parted, and she would just… listen. As if heaven whispered secrets meant only for her. And maybe it did. Maybe she had never belonged to this world. She dreamed of silver thrones soaked in blood. Of kings coughing prophecy through broken teeth. Of chains that glittered like jewels. But she never told anyone. How do you confess to remembering a past you never lived? Then—chaos. A scream shattered the hush. Like glass exploding beneath god’s fist. “Wait! My ball!” A child. The road. Maria moved before thought could chain her. Her body was pure instinct—feral and divine. The truck kept coming. Unyielding. Brutal. Maria didn’t slow. She flew. She cut through the world like a blade, swift and unrelenting. Arms out. Heart wide. And in that final heartbeat—just before steel met softness— She reached him. Pulled the child to her. And then— Light. Not soft. Not holy. Violent. Wicked. Righteous. The kind of light that burns away your name. And then— Black. No sound. No breath. No pain. Only stillness. Only void. Her lips parted— And the world fell silent. — The apartment reeked of desperation and cheap food. Ramen. Sugar. Sadness. Chaos cluttered every surface. And in the middle of it all, Hannah sat—half-dressed, half-dead inside. Rage simmering under tired skin. Chopsticks clutched like weapons. Eyes locked on her glitching phone. “If this app crashes one more time,” she muttered, “I’m drop-kicking Olympus off a cliff.” Flicker. Buzz. White. Everything swallowed in light. No scream. No sound. Just— Oblivion. And then she fell. Stone met spine. Groan met mouth. Velvet. Fire. Chanting. And six hooded freaks playing priest. “Oh, hell no,” she hissed. One raised a staff that pulsed with the same kind of energy that ruins timelines. She stood up with the fury of every girl denied sleep, love, and stable Wi-Fi. “If this is some virgin-sacrifice, you’ve chosen the wrong bitch.” Then— Explosion. Smoke bled into the room. The wind bent. And he walked in. Tall. Terrible. Devastating. Dark hair. Sinful eyes. Smile like damnation in velvet form. “Thank the gods,” he drawled, grinning. “You didn’t combust. That’s… rare.” Her brow lifted. “Who the hell are you?” “Lark,” he said. “Chaos. Summoner. Third favorite disappointment of the divine.” “You look like you sell fake spells behind a club.” “Accurate.” She blinked. “I was eating noodles.” “And now,” he purred, “you’re the Great Healer.” “…I hate everything.” “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” — In the east wing, silence draped over the palace like mourning lace. The Emperor lay still. A man devoured by time. Until— She returned. Light tore through marble and memory. Holy and unkind. When it faded, he was reborn. Hair like silver flame. Eyes that bled prophecy. The servants fell. Trembled. Wept. One whispered, “Your Majesty?” He didn’t answer. He stared at his reflection, touched the boyhood stolen by death, and smiled like a god kissed in betrayal. Then he turned. “Bring me my armor.” “But… the throne—” “I’ll leave it to you, Hosea.” Wind clawed at him from the balcony, but he didn’t flinch. “She’s back,” he breathed. And the stars bowed low. “I will not lose her again.”