The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the elegant white-stone buildings of Azul Spira’s mid-level in soft hues of orange and lavender. The cheerful bustle of the day was winding down, replaced by the quieter, more intimate sounds of evening—the distant chime of a clock tower, the gentle lapping of water in the canals, the soft murmur of conversations drifting from open windows. It was the time of day when Cafe Neon usually glowed with a warm, inviting light, a peaceful haven smelling of roasted coffee and sweet pastries.

  The bell above the door chimed, its familiar, cheerful sound a stark, almost jarring contrast to the tension that clung to the two figures who entered.

  “We’re here, Mary,” Emile said, his voice the same calm, gentle melody it always was. He still held her cradled securely in his arms, his steps silent and steady on the familiar wooden floorboards.

  “Put me down,” Mary’s voice was a raw, hoarse whisper, the word torn from a throat tight with a fear she couldn’t yet name. She didn't struggle, her body rigid in his hold, but her eyes… Emile saw it clearly. The wide, dilated pupils, the way her gaze darted around the empty cafe as if expecting shadows to leap from the corners. The sheer, primal terror of the unknown had taken root, overriding the relief of rescue. He calmly, gently, lowered her to her feet, his hands hovering near her shoulders for a moment before retracting, giving her space.

  “Mama!”

  The cry was a bright, joyous explosion that shattered the heavy silence. Anise burst from the back room, a small, brunette whirlwind of pure, unadulterated relief. She threw her arms around Mary’s legs, hugging her tightly. “Mama! You’re back!”

  Mary flinched at the sudden contact, a small gasp escaping her lips before the familiar, overwhelming wave of maternal love washed over her, a desperate anchor in the storm of her fear. She knelt, pulling her daughter into a fierce, trembling embrace, burying her face in Anise’s soft hair, inhaling the simple, clean scent of childhood.

  “Did you get me anything?” Anise asked, her voice muffled against Mary’s shoulder, the question bright with the innocent, unwavering certainty of a child who believes the world revolves around promises kept.

  Mary froze. The question, so simple and so normal, was a sudden, cold splash of reality. Kidnapped. She had been taken, bound, threatened. Her world had tilted on its axis. But Anise… Anise didn’t know. Her daughter’s eyes, now looking up at her with that familiar, expectant sparkle, held no trace of fear, no shadow of the horror Mary had just endured. Which could only mean one thing. Emile. The quiet, enigmatic man standing silently by the door… he had somehow shielded Anise from it all. Kept her safe. Kept her innocent. The realization was a complex, confusing mixture of profound gratitude and a lingering, chilling dread.

  Mary forced a smile onto her lips, a trembling, fragile thing, but a smile nonetheless. She dusted off her clothes, smoothing down wrinkles that weren’t really there, buying herself a precious second to compose herself. “Sorry, Anise,” she said, her voice regaining a semblance of its usual warmth, though a slight tremor still lurked beneath the surface. “Mama accidentally dropped her wallet on the way. So we didn’t get anything today.” The lie felt clumsy on her tongue, but it was necessary. “Did you finish your homework?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

  Anise pouted for a fraction of a second, the fleeting disappointment instantly forgotten. “Yes!” she nodded vigorously, her pigtails bouncing. “Anise finished all my homework!” Her bright blue eyes lit up again. “Can I play now?”

  “Yes, dear,” Mary sighed, a wave of weary relief washing over her. “You can play.”

  “Yay!!!” Anise cheered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her gaze immediately shifted, landing on the silent figure still standing near the entrance. “Mr. Emile!” she called out brightly. “Let’s play!”

  Mary took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Sorry, dear,” she said, her voice gentle but firm as she looked down at her daughter. “Can you go first? Mama and Mr. Emile need to talk for a little bit.”

  Anise’s bright smile faltered, her shoulders slumping slightly with disappointment. “Okay,” she mumbled, shuffling her feet. “But don’t be too long.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Mary promised, giving her daughter a final, reassuring hug. Anise nodded, her earlier excitement returning as she skipped towards the curtained doorway leading to their living quarters, disappearing into the back of the cafe once more.

  The moment the curtain swayed shut behind Anise, the fragile peace shattered. Mary turned, her earlier gratitude and relief overshadowed by a rising tide of fear and suspicion. She faced Emile, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture a defensive wall.

  “What is your deal?” she asked, her voice no longer the warm, gentle tone of a mother, but sharp, cold, and laced with an edge of barely contained panic. She took a step back, putting distance between them. “You lied to my daughter about my kidnapping. Then… then you somehow brutalized those men back in the warehouse.” Her voice trembled, the memory of the grotesque pile of bodies flashing in her mind. “Who are you, really?” she demanded, her gaze sweeping over him, searching for any crack in his calm facade. “You’re not just some amnesiac person who fell into my backyard, are you?” The questions tumbled out, a barrage born from terror and a desperate need for answers.

  Emile met her gaze, his expression unchanging, his kind smile still firmly in place, though it now felt chillingly out of sync with the gravity of the situation. “Mary…” he began, his voice still that same, soft tenor. “Anise is still a child. She doesn’t need to know about things like that. About the dangers of the world.” He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he looked towards the curtain where Anise had disappeared. “That is also what you want, right? To protect her innocence?”

  Mary flinched, the simple, undeniable truth of his words striking a chord deep within her. Yes. Above all else, that was what she wanted. She gave a single, sharp nod, conceding the point, though her suspicion remained, a cold knot in her stomach.

  “And those men,” Emile continued, his gaze returning to her, steady and unwavering, “they were trying to hurt you. They sent me a message.” His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something—calculation? memory?—in his eyes. “Threats. About money you supposedly owed, money connected to… him.” He didn’t need to say the name. “They made it clear they would harm you if they didn’t get what they wanted.” His smile vanished then, replaced by a look of cold, hard finality. “I did what needed to be done.”

  “By beating them to the edge of their lives?” Mary challenged, her voice rising again, laced with a new wave of horrified disbelief. The sheer, brutal efficiency of the violence she had witnessed… it wasn’t self-defense. It was something else. “Why didn’t you just call the local authorities? The guards?”

  Emile tilted his head slightly, as if considering a complex but ultimately flawed equation. “That would be too slow,” he stated simply, his voice returning to that unnerving, flat monotone. “Too inefficient.” He met her gaze. “The longer I waited, the greater the risk to your safety became. Based on their aggressive posture and weaponry, the likelihood of them escalating to lethal force against you was considerable. Calling the authorities would have introduced an unacceptable delay, jeopardizing the chance for a clean resolution.” His explanation was precise.

  “Even so, that was too inhumane,” Mary commented, her voice still trembling slightly, though the edge of panic had softened into a weary, troubled confusion. She looked at him, at the calm, almost detached expression on his face, and a new, colder fear began to take root. “You could have gotten hurt,” she said, the words a weak echo of her earlier concern, now tinged with a dawning, terrible suspicion.

  “They wouldn’t even scratch me,” Emile replied, his kind smile returning, unwavering and absolute. The certainty in his voice, the utter lack of doubt, was perhaps the most unsettling part of all.

  “Go!” Mary’s voice was a sudden, sharp command, not born of anger, but of a raw, desperate fear. She took another step back, her hand held up as if to ward off something she couldn’t see.

  Emile’s smile faltered for the first time, a flicker of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, in his eyes. “Mary?” he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Did I… bother you?” He truly didn’t understand. He had neutralized the threat. He had protected her. He had kept Anise safe. What more was there?

  “Please, just go away!” she shouted, the words a raw, broken plea that tore through the quiet cafe. Her composure finally shattered, the terror she had been holding back flooding her eyes. “Anise… she’ll be in danger if she’s with you! We’re scared!” Her voice cracked, dissolving into a quiet, desperate sob. “Please… just leave us alone!”

  Emile stood perfectly still, his kind smile gone now, replaced by a profound, almost weary stillness. He looked at her, at the raw, unvarnished fear in her eyes, and something clicked in the blank spaces of his mind. A memory, fragmented and hazy, surfaced—a flash of two figures, their faces obscured, turning away from each other, a chasm of unspoken words and broken trust widening between them. Two unbreakable people… who had somehow lost their connection. He didn’t understand the memory, not fully, but he understood the feeling. The need for distance. For… ‘space.’

  “Very well,” he said, his voice quiet, accepting. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to explain further. He simply nodded, a single, solemn gesture of understanding. “But I will keep protecting Anise. And you.” The words were not a threat, but a quiet, unwavering promise. And with that, he turned and walked out of the cafe, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him, leaving Mary alone in the sudden, heavy silence, her fear and her gratitude warring within her.

  As Emile stepped out into the cool evening air, another memory, this one clearer, more recent, surfaced in the quiet emptiness of his mind. A different conversation, held in this very cafe just a few weeks prior…

  Inside the cafe, the atmosphere had been much lighter, filled with the cheerful bustle of the mid-morning rush. Emile sat at the counter, nursing a simple cup of black coffee, watching Mary move with her usual practiced grace behind the bar.

  “So,” Mary had asked, her voice a warm, easy thing as she wiped down the gleaming surface of the espresso machine, “do you have work here in Spica, Emile?”

  Emile had considered the question, his mind a blank slate searching for an input that wasn’t there. “Work,” he had repeated, the word feeling strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. “Yes, people need work.” His voice had been flat then too, the monotone a stark contrast to the lively cafe around them. “Not as of now. Still looking,” he had concluded simply.

  “So… no job, no place to live, no memories?” Mary had commented, a hand flying up to her face in a gesture of pure, exasperated disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

  Emile, watching her, had tilted his head, his gaze analytical. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he had mirrored her gesture, bringing his own hand up to his forehead in a perfect, if utterly contextless, imitation.

  A soft giggle, bright and clear, had cut through the quiet murmur of the cafe. Anise, who had just returned from some errand, her hair still slightly damp from playing near one of the city’s many fountains, stood in the doorway, her blue eyes wide with amusement. “Mr. Emile, you’re funny!” she had declared, pointing a small finger at his mimicking gesture.

  “Fun-ny?” Emile had repeated, the word a new, unfamiliar data point, his gaze shifting from Mary’s facepalming form to the small, giggling girl.

  “Yes, funny!” Anise had confirmed, her smile wide and cheerful. “I love it!” She had run over then, tugging insistently on his arm. “You should live with us, Mister!” she had declared with the unwavering conviction only a child possesses.

  “Anise!” Mary’s voice had been a sharp, immediate scolding, though her eyes held a flicker of fond amusement. “Sorry about that,” she had said to Emile, her cheeks flushing slightly. “She’s still a child. Don’t take her words too seriously.”

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  “But why, Mama?” Anise had protested, turning her pleading gaze to her mother. “We have that empty room upstairs! Mr. Emile is funny, and I don’t think he’s bad! He brought me home!”

  “Anise, remember what Mama said about strangers,” Mary had reminded her gently.

  “But Mr. Emile isn’t a stranger anymore!” Anise had insisted, her small hands planted firmly on her hips. “Please, Mama?”

  Mary had let out a long, slow sigh, her resolve already beginning to crumble under the sheer force of her daughter’s hopeful gaze. Anise was her weakness. “He has no job, Anise,” she had tried to explain gently. “He has no money. That room is for someone who can pay the rent.”

  “So he can just get a job and pay you, Mama!” Anise had countered instantly, her logic simple, direct, and surprisingly effective.

  “Yes, I can pay,” Emile had stated then, his voice still that same, flat monotone. He had reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn Cal pouch, placing it on the counter with a soft thud. It wasn't bulging, but it wasn't entirely empty either.

  Mary had stared at the pouch, then at Emile’s blank, unreadable face, then at her daughter’s bright, expectant one. She had sighed again, a sound of pure, weary surrender. “Fine,” she had relented, the words feeling heavy on her tongue. “You can take the second-floor room.” She had fixed Emile with a stern look. “But please, find a job. I don’t want a jobless person taking up my empty room for long.”

  “Yay!!!” Anise had cheered, her victory immediate and absolute. She had grabbed Emile’s hand, pulling the still somewhat clueless man towards the door. “Let’s go, Mr. Emile! Let’s see the room!”

  “Anise!” Mary had called after them, her voice a mixture of exasperation and a quiet, reluctant fondness. She remembered watching them go, the small girl dragging the tall, quiet man towards the narrow, wooden staircase tucked away on the outside wall of the cafe, the one that led up to the simple, empty room above.

  The memory shifted, blurring into a montage, a series of quiet, sunlit vignettes playing out in Emile's mind like fragments of a forgotten film. The second-floor room, when he first saw it, had been little more than a storage space, filled with forgotten furniture draped in dusty white sheets, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and neglect. But Emile, driven by a quiet, innate sense of order, had simply… begun. He moved with a silent, methodical efficiency, clearing out the clutter, scrubbing the floors until the wood gleamed, patching the small cracks in the plaster walls. There was no joy in the task, no sense of accomplishment. Just a quiet, logical progression from disorder to order. Within a day, the dusty storage room had become a clean, sparse, but undeniably habitable space. A place to 'sleep.'

  The following day had found him wandering the bright, chaotic streets of Azul Spira, his mind still a blank canvas, searching for the 'job' Mary had insisted upon. Purpose. Objective. These concepts felt abstract, meaningless. He observed the bustling crowds, the vendors hawking their wares, the artists lost in their creations, processing the data without comprehension.

  Then, Anise had found him again. She had dragged him away from the main thoroughfares, her small hand surprisingly strong in his, leading him down a series of quiet, winding paths he hadn't noticed before. They had arrived at a small, hidden courtyard, a forgotten corner of the city where a patch of earth lay neglected, choked with weeds but still holding the stubborn, vibrant green of a few wildflowers.

  “Look!” Anise had declared, her voice full of a pure, uncomplicated delight as she pointed to a single, struggling rose bush, its petals a faded, dusty pink. “Flowers!” She had looked up at him then, her bright blue eyes shining with a fierce, childlike conviction. “I love flowers, Mr. Emile! I wish there were more flowers in Azul Spira! Pretty ones!”

  Flowers. Pretty. The words echoed in the quiet emptiness of his mind, simple concepts that seemed to connect in a surprisingly clear line. Flowers brought joy to the child. People desired joy. Selling flowers… it was a potential path. A job. A purpose, however small, however strange, presented by a child's innocent wish.

  The next day, he had acquired a simple wooden cart from a retiring merchant in the lower level market. The transaction was swift, impersonal, conducted with the same flat monotone that unnerved Mary but seemed perfectly normal to the gruff, pragmatic vendors. He had spent the afternoon cleaning it, sanding down the rough edges, applying a fresh coat of sealant. He brought the cart and some jars of paint he purchased back to the cafe's small backyard to begin decorating.

  Anise, finding him there amidst the cans of paint and brushes, had immediately asked if she could help. Together, they had spent hours under the warm afternoon sun, transforming the plain wooden cart. Anise’s contributions were a chaotic, joyful explosion of color—lopsided suns, smiling stick figures, flowers that looked more like colorful blobs. Emile’s additions were… different. Precise, geometric patterns in muted blues and greens, lines drawn with an almost unnerving perfection. Mary had watched them from the cafe window, a small, quiet smile playing on her lips, her earlier apprehension about the strange man momentarily forgotten in the face of her daughter’s pure, unadulterated happiness.

  The days after that had settled into a quiet, predictable rhythm. Emile would set up his newly decorated flower cart in a small, sunlit corner of the lower level marketplace each morning. His knowledge of floristry, like his cleaning skills, seemed innate, effortless. He knew instinctively which flowers thrived in the Spican climate, how to arrange them into bouquets that were both beautiful and structurally sound, how to speak their silent language of color and scent. Customers, drawn by the simple, quiet beauty of his cart and his own gentle, unassuming presence, began to appear.

  Just after noon, he would pack up his unsold wares and make his way towards Anise’s school, a habit born not from obligation, but from a strange, quiet curiosity about the small, bright soul who had inadvertently given him a purpose. Mary, after her initial protests, had eventually, reluctantly, allowed it, perhaps sensing the genuine, if inexplicable, connection between the quiet man and her daughter.

  And in the evenings, he would return to Cafe Neon. He would help Mary with the closing tasks—wiping down tables, sweeping the floor, sometimes even trying his hand at washing dishes under her patient, amused tutelage. It was during these quiet, shared moments, in the warm glow of the cafe after hours, surrounded by the comforting aroma of coffee and the easy, gentle presence of Mary and Anise, that something new began to surface in the blank landscape of his mind. A subtle shift. A slight upward curve at the corners of his lips. The beginnings of what Mary would later recognize, with a start of surprise, as his usual smile.

  One such quiet night, the city outside hushed and still under a blanket of stars, Emile sat on the simple wooden stool beside Anise’s bed. The small oil lamp cast a gentle, golden glow on the pages of the worn storybook he held, his voice a low, quiet murmur as he read of brave knights and faraway lands. Anise lay tucked under her blanket, her breathing already deep and even, lost in the peaceful landscape of dreams.

  He carefully closed the book, setting it aside on the small bedside table. He watched the sleeping child for a long moment, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

  “She really likes you.”

  Mary’s voice, a soft whisper from the doorway, startled him slightly. He looked up, his smile widening a fraction as she leaned against the doorframe, her own expression a mixture of gratitude and gentle amusement. “I don’t know what she sees in you,” she admitted, her voice still a quiet murmur, though it held a teasing edge.

  “Maybe… I’m just good at this?” Emile offered, the words an awkward, hesitant attempt at humor.

  Mary stared at him for a moment, her brow furrowed in genuine surprise. “Is that… a joke?” she asked, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her lips. “You can actually make a joke?”

  A flicker of something—satisfaction? accomplishment?—crossed Emile’s face. “Did it work?” he asked, his voice still quiet, but with a new, almost hopeful inflection. “I learned it recently.” The phrase, collection from memory fragments of a boy, surfaced unexpectedly in his mind.

  Mary’s smile widened, genuine and warm this time. “Not really,” she admitted, her voice soft. “It’s still too out of place for you. But…” she paused, her gaze softening as she looked at him, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time without the lens of suspicion or weary exasperation. “Try again sometime.”

  “You are smiling, Mary,” Emile pointed out, his voice a simple, quiet observation.

  “Oh,” Mary’s hand flew to her cheek, a faint, lovely blush rising in the soft light. “I guess so.” Her gaze drifted back to her sleeping daughter, her smile turning a little sad, a little wistful. “It’s been a while.” She looked back at Emile, and the gratitude in her eyes was deep and sincere. “But really, Emile… thank you.”

  “For what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  “For helping me take care of Anise,” Mary explained, her voice dropping to a low, heartfelt whisper. “She grew up without her father. She may look cheerful on the outside, but… she has issues making connections with others because of it.” Her gaze met his, full of a quiet, profound appreciation. “So, thank you. For being there for her.”

  “It’s nothing, Mary,” Emile replied, his own voice quiet. His gaze returned to the sleeping child, a new, deeper understanding settling in his mind. “Anise… in her own way, she has taught me many things as well.”

  Mary didn’t know what he meant by that. But in that quiet, shared moment, under the soft glow of the lamplight, with the gentle sound of her daughter’s breathing filling the stillness, the last of her fear, her suspicion, finally melted away. She saw not a dangerous enigma, not a potential threat, but simply… Emile. A kind, quiet man who had, somehow, inexplicably, become a part of their small, fragile family. This was the moment she finally, truly, connected with him.

  Back in the present, Emile slowly climbed the narrow wooden staircase on the outside wall of the cafe, each step heavy, deliberate. He reached the small landing outside the door to his second-floor room and paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He looked back down at the warm, inviting light spilling from the cafe windows below, at the silhouette of Mary moving within, her form a picture of fragile, resilient strength. He had remembered everything. The fall, the strange blue light in the sea cave, the impossible strength, the mission he couldn’t recall but felt like a physical weight in his soul. He remembered it all the moment he woke up in Mary’s backyard. But he hadn't told them. He couldn't. Mary, Anise… their quiet kindness, their uncomplicated joy, the strange, comforting warmth he felt when he was with them… it was a fragile, beautiful thing. A sanctuary. His past, whatever it held, whatever purpose he was supposed to fulfill, felt like a storm cloud that would inevitably shatter this peace. It was a secret he had to keep. For their sake. A solitary figure in the Spican twilight, he carried the weight of his known past and his uncertain future like a shroud. The memory of a conversation, one held just the day before, surfaced, a bittersweet counterpoint to the fear he had just seen in Mary’s eyes.

  Day before the encounter...

  The afternoon sun had been warm and gentle, filtering through the leaves of a large, ancient tree in a quiet park not far from Cafe Neon. A checkered blanket was spread across the soft grass, laden with a simple picnic lunch—sandwiches Mary had made, a flask of cool lemonade, and a small basket of sweet, red berries.

  Anise, her laughter a bright, clear melody, chased butterflies across the sun-dappled lawn, her small frame a whirlwind of pure, uncomplicated joy. Emile sat beside her, watching, a quiet, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Mary sat opposite them, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree, her own expression serene, content. It was a perfect moment, a fragile, beautiful bubble of peace in the heart of the bustling city.

  “You two, the food will be cold,” Mary called out finally, her voice a gentle interruption to their game.

  Anise immediately abandoned her butterfly hunt, running back towards the blanket with Emile following at a more sedate pace. They settled down, cross-legged on the checkered fabric, and Mary began to pass out the sandwiches. They ate in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the distant, happy shouts of other children playing in the park. It was a scene so normal, so perfectly domestic, it could have been painted. A family.

  And apparently, Anise agreed.

  “Be my Papa, Mr. Emile.”

  The words, spoken with the simple, unwavering conviction only a child possesses, dropped into the peaceful silence like a stone into a still pond. Mary choked on her sandwich, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and mortification. Emile just froze, a half-eaten sandwich hovering inches from his lips, his mind struggling to process the unexpected input.

  “Anise!” Mary finally managed, her voice a sharp, flustered whisper after she swallowed. “That’s… that’s not something you just say to someone! Please, apologize to Mr. Emile right now!”

  “But why not?” Anise countered, her brow furrowed with genuine confusion, her gaze shifting from her flustered mother to the still-frozen Emile. “Mr. Emile is always here for me. And Mama… you seem to smile more when he’s with us.” She looked back at Emile, her bright blue eyes full of a simple, profound, and utterly logical conclusion. “Like… like we love him.”

  Love. The word echoed in Emile’s mind, triggering another cascade of memories—the boy with the messy hair, the girl with the silver eyes, their fierce, illogical devotion to each other, a force that seemed to defy reason itself. He still didn’t understand it, not fully.

  “What is love?” Emile asked, the question directed not just at Mary, but at the universe itself, his voice still holding that faint, unnerving detachment, though now tinged with a genuine, almost desperate curiosity. “Why does everyone keep saying ‘love’?” He looked from Anise’s innocent, expectant face to Mary’s now deeply flushed one. “Is it something quantifiable? A measurable state?” He truly wanted to know. Why did this single, abstract concept seem to drive so many illogical actions?

  Mary tilted her head, her earlier embarrassment giving way to a quiet, thoughtful pause. She looked at Emile, at the genuine, almost childlike confusion in his eyes, and a slow, gentle understanding dawned. He wasn’t being rude. He simply… didn’t know. She let out a long, slow sigh, a sound of quiet resignation and a dawning, unexpected responsibility. How did one explain the most complex, most fundamental human emotion to someone who seemed to exist outside of it?

  “Love is…..” She began to speak then, her voice calm and steady, her words simple, direct, chosen with care.

  her explanation, Emile just smiled. It wasn’t his usual, practiced curve of the lips. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift, a flicker of something new, something thoughtful, something almost… warm, touching his eyes for the briefest of moments before settling back into its familiar, gentle mask. The words Mary had spoken, the quiet, profound truths she had shared under the shade of an old tree… they didn’t provide a quantifiable answer. They didn’t offer a logical reasoning. But they resonated. They were words he couldn’t process, yet somehow understood. And Emile knew, with a certainty that settled deep within him, that he would keep those words, that quiet, imperfect definition of love, to himself. Forever.