I should have let her go. They told me I should've burned the body. They screamed, begged, even tried to drag her from my arms. Because she was still warm. Because she was still her. Because love makes monsters of us all. Her name was Lyra, and she died in my arms with a whisper. And I held her as the tremors came. As her eyes dulled. As her breath stopped. She didn't deserve the fire. She didn't deserve the pit outside the town gates where they dumped the turned. So I brought her home. Our apartment was quiet. The world outside burned, crumbled, howled. But here, with the windows boarded and candles flickering, it still felt like us. I laid her on our bed. Washed the blood from her face. Three hours later, she twitched. And her eyes—those perfect eyes—snapped open. Black veins webbed beneath the surface. But it was still her face. Her smell. Her warmth. Clawed at the sheets. But I didn't move. I just wept. "I'm here," I told her. "I never left." I chained her to the bedposts. Leather belts, thick rope, my own trembling hands. She thrashed, screeched, snapped her jaws. But I still saw her—the woman I'd danced with in the kitchen, the one who made me laugh until I choked, the one who said she'd never leave me, even if the world fell apart. They smelled the rot. They heard the sounds. They pounded on my door. "She's turned, Ezra! Let her go!" Days passed. I played her favorite songs. She stopped snarling when I read her our old letters. Her head would tilt, just slightly. I fed her scraps. Watered her lips with a sponge. Then one night, the ropes frayed. I woke to her shadow over me. Her face inches from mine. Touched my face with cold, cracked fingers. Then staggered back to the bed. The next day, I reinforced the chains. But I also kissed her forehead. Because she was still in there. And I didn't let her go. Love is supposed to be patient. But nobody tells you what happens when it refuses to die.