She kissed him goodbye, knowing he would not remember her tomorrow. His lips trembled against hers, fragile with the weight of unspoken dreams. She had seen this moment before — countless times, with countless souls — yet each farewell carved a new wound into her heart.


The gift of giving was her burden, an eternal flame that burned endlessly, shedding light upon those chosen by creation and destined to cross her path. Though it sounded simple, the truth was cruel: the keeper of the flame became a healer for the wounded, and with each touch, she was scorched anew.


This kiss, she knew, was not for her. It was for him — for the boy who had wandered too long in the shadows, who had forgotten the warmth of love. She gave him this memory, though she knew it would fade, leaving behind only the faint remnants of choices unmade and love unkept.


She was a healer, offering the lost a home for a moment in time. In this world, the darkness stretched far and wide, and those who lived within it mistook misery for peace. She had seen it before: men and women clinging to sorrow as if it were safety, refusing the light because it revealed too much.


Yet she remembered everything. His smell, his voice, the way it trembled when he spoke. The way his arms felt around her, hesitant yet desperate, as though he feared she might vanish. She remembered the dreams he seldom shared, fragments of hope buried beneath years of silence.


Her flame burned bright enough to reveal what was hidden inside. Like a mirror, she offered visions of themselves that only the gifted could see — glimpses of the person they might become, if only they chose to step out of the dark. What greater gift could there be? Love where there was none. Hope where all else was lost. Light to guide them home.


But the problem was always the same. Those who walked too long in darkness learned to find comfort in emptiness. They found solace in the loss of a kiss, in the absence of love. And so, like many before him, he would go. He would choose the path of forgetting, the path of shadows.


The darkness was not merely absence of light. It was a living thing, patient and hungry. It whispered to those who lingered too long within it, convincing them that sorrow was safety, that despair was peace. It wrapped itself around their hearts, teaching them to fear the flame.


She had fought it for centuries, offering her light to those who stumbled into her arms. But the darkness was clever. It taught them to forget her, to forget the warmth she gave. And so, each time, she was left alone, carrying the memory while they walked away.


Still, she kissed him goodbye, burning another hole in the hand she offered. Though he would forget her, she would not forget him. That was her fate: to give love that was never kept, to share it only for a fleeting moment with souls wandering in the dark.


For now, she would burn bright for him, as she had for so many before. She held him a second longer, whispering a silent prayer into the night. One more kiss, before he left — not for him, but for her glow.


Sometimes she wondered if she was real at all, or merely a shadow conjured by the flame. Perhaps she existed only in the instant of giving, fading into obscurity as soon as the light passed on. Perhaps that was why they forgot — because she was never meant to be kept.


But she longed for more. She longed for someone who would remember, someone who would hold her hand not just for a moment, but for a lifetime. She longed for love that was hers, not borrowed, not fleeting.


And yet, she knew it would never be.

She was a wounded healer, and she knew his memory would become fuel for the next soul. But him? He would not remember her tomorrow.