The world rippled.

Colors bled, smearing into impossible shades before collapsing into shape again, and where once there had been the burning throne and the blinding presence of the Hope, there was now something gentler, something golden, sunlit and impossibly familiar.

Aria's fake eyes drank in the vision, though it was not hers to live.

Before them rose a mansion unlike any she had seen. It sprawled, vast and confident, its walls painted with shifting hues that seemed to catch the light at every angle. Its windows arched high and regal, framed with intricate stonework like frozen waves. The roof gleamed a shade of silver-blue, almost oceanic, as though it remembered the tides. At its heart were the doors, two colossal slabs of wood polished to a mirror sheen, their edges chased with veins of gold. Upon them, etched with care so exact it seemed divine, gleamed a single number: 625.

And beside the doors, rising like a guardian of the past, stood the tree. It curled skyward in a great J-shape, branches twisting in strange but graceful arcs, leaves catching light as though painted one by one.

Two figures stood before the mansion.

First was Bosch, looking almost the exact same as he had looked in the throne room just moments before.

Beside him was Rosaline. She stood barefoot in the grass, the faint shimmer of water clinging to her form as if she had only just risen from the sea. Her long, translucent hair rippled in waves down her back, threaded with the faint shapes of darting fish that dissolved into mist when one tried to look too closely. The faintest smile touched her lips as she turned her gaze upon the mansion.

For a long while, neither spoke.

At last, Bosch exhaled. His voice was soft, almost boyish despite the man he had become. "It hasn't changed at all."

Rosaline tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curving. "Of course it hasn't. Memory is a stubborn thing. It keeps houses standing long after they should crumble." She reached down as something brushed against her ankle. A tiny white cat darted past her feet, tail high, before circling back. She bent, scooping the creature up with effortless grace, its soft body curling against her arm. "Though I don't remember your parents keeping this one."

Bosch laughed, a quick, nervous sound, and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. "No. That one is new." He glanced at her, golden eyes flickering before darting back to the door. "It suits you better than it does me."

Rosaline leaned into him, the cat perched between them, and let her head rest against his shoulder. "Still as bad at compliments as you were when you were a boy."

Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he turned slightly away, as though the mansion might save him from her teasing. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything." Her voice softened, carrying the cadence of waves smoothing stones. "The awkward little boy sitting beneath that tree, clutching a brush too large for his hand. The way he refused to look at me, no matter how many times I spoke. And the way his ears burned whenever I leaned over his canvas."

Bosch groaned softly. "Must you remind me?"

"Must I? Of course." A gentle laugh escaped her. "Because that was the moment I knew."

He blinked, turning back toward her. "Knew what?"

Rosaline's eyes shimmered like the ocean under moonlight. "That you would never stop painting. That even if the world fell to ruin, even if you were stripped of every tool, you'd scratch beauty into the dirt with your bare hands." She brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear, her touch as light as mist. "That kind of stubbornness… I had never seen it in a child before."

Bosch swallowed, his throat tight. "And yet I only painted you."

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Rosaline smiled again, though this time there was something gentler, quieter, almost shy. "Yes. I noticed."

They stood in silence, the cat purring softly in her arms, the breeze stirring the leaves of the J-shaped tree.

"It was my parents," Bosch said at last, voice low. "They saw something in me I didn't understand. I thought I was only… escaping. Colors were easier than words. But they… they believed." He gestured toward the mansion. "This was their house. And when I was eleven, they decided they had nothing left to teach me. So they sent for you."

Rosaline's gaze drifted past the mansion, toward the horizon where sea met sky. "The Southern Sea was my home. It had been, for three centuries. I thought I would never leave it." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "And then, one day, a messenger arrived, begging me to teach some noble's boy how to master the brush. I nearly refused."

Bosch turned sharply. "You— you nearly—?"

"I did." Her smile widened at his shock. "But then I saw the painting they sent with the letter. A boy's attempt at a portrait. Crude, yes, unbalanced, yes… but alive. Alive in a way that paintings rarely are. I had lived long enough to see countless talents rise, but that stroke—" She tapped a finger gently against his chest, right over his racing heart. "That stroke had you in it. And I thought… I want to see what he becomes."

Bosch's breath left him in a rush. "Rosaline…"

Her voice turned playful again, though her eyes softened. "And you rewarded me by blushing every time I looked at you. Every time I leaned close, you turned redder than the sunset."

"I was eleven!" Bosch protested, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "What was I supposed to do? You were—are—" He faltered, words catching.

Rosaline tilted her head, waiting.

"You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."

The words hung in the air. For a long while Rosaline only looked at him, the faint curl of her lips unreadable. Then she laughed quietly, a sound like ripples across still water, and shifted closer, pressing her forehead briefly against his.

"And you," she whispered, "Were the first boy foolish enough to fall in love with a woman three hundred years his elder."

Bosch flushed scarlet, but his voice steadied. "It wasn't foolish. Not then. Not now. I knew. From the moment I saw you, I knew."

Rosaline closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the words as though they were a tide washing over her. When she opened them again, her smile was gentler still. "And I waited. I waited through your awkward years, your silence, your shame, your brilliance. I waited through centuries of paintings you never showed me, because I knew one day, you would look at me not as a boy looks at a dream, but as a man looks at the woman."

Bosch's hands trembled at his sides. "And this… is that day?"

Rosaline nodded, the faint shimmer of water trailing from her hair catching in the light. "This is that day."

The little cat stirred in her arms, stretching before curling into her chest again. Rosaline stroked its fur, her lips curving into a smile. "I've always loved cats," she murmured, voice soft as the breeze. "They wander freely, never bowing to anyone, and yet… they choose whose lap to grace. A little like me, once."

Bosch glanced down at the creature, then back at her, a question flickering in his eyes. "Is it your favorite color, Rosaline?"

She gave him a look that was equal parts playful and tender, her sea-glass eyes glimmering. "You already know the answer to such a stupid question."

He let out a quiet laugh, the tension in his chest breaking just a little, and nodded. "Yes. Of course..."

Rosaline leaned against him more fully, the purring cat nestled between them, its warmth a fragile counterpoint to the centuries of distance that had preceded this moment. For a long time, neither spoke.

At last, Rosaline's voice stirred the silence. "After five hundred years of service, after everything we gave to kings and crowns… don't you think it's time we lived for ourselves?"

Bosch's throat tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. "Yes." He tightened his hand around hers, golden eyes fixed on the door as though it might open into something more than memory. "Yes, it is."

The cat purred louder, content in her arms. The leaves rustled in the breeze.

And for the first time in centuries, Hieronymus Bosch allowed himself to believe in a new beginning.

Rosaline tilted her head. "We carried that weight longer than any mortal should have. We bled for cities not our own, guarded monarchs who never once looked past their reflection. But we endured, Bosch. We endured because that was who we were."

His lips curved faintly, not with pride, but with something stronger: acceptance. "And perhaps that is why we've earned this."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her smile softer now. "Not perhaps. We did earn it. Every century, every scar, every brushstroke. We were never saints. But we were true, and we were damn good."

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of wind in the leaves and the purr of the white cat. The mansion waited, doors closed but expectant.

Bosch exhaled slowly, as though releasing the last breath of five hundred years of service. "Let the crowns paint their walls in blood. Let the kings drown in their own portraits. I've signed enough canvases for others. From here on, Rosaline… I paint only for us."

She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening around his. "As will I." she whispered.

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