Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time-Chapter 469 Between Evidence and Confession

Fitran's footsteps echoed as she stepped into the low hall of Concordia Hall, which still stood majestically despite its damage. The damp and dusty aroma enveloped the air, evoking a sense of nostalgia for memories long faded, creating an atmosphere filled with emotional layers.

The towering walls around her were adorned with remnants of glyphs from the past, telling stories of forgotten tales. The incantations were cut off, as if trapped in hanging sentences. In the corner of the room, dim light radiated, casting dancing shadows, as if the spirits of ancient times still roamed, adding to the suffocating silence in Fitran's heart.

In the midst of that darkness stood five figures that sent shivers down her spine. They were neither enemies nor friends. The aura surrounding them hinted at uncertainty, creating a deep chasm between hope and the turmoil of fear within her, as if challenging her faith in what would happen next.

They were witnesses to a system now shattered... and they wanted answers. In the fragments of that broken story, Fitran could feel her heartbeat vibrating, as time seemed to rewind, recalling promises once spoken in love buried deep in her heart, a commitment that now felt increasingly distant.

"We do not ask for your sacrifice, Fitran."

"We will not judge. We will not attack."

"We only want one thing:

Prove that love is real."

"That all that you do—wild glyphs, voidlings, the Gödelian Codex, and concept fragments—are not mere illusions." With each word spoken, the emotional burden continued to grow, like a pile of stones obstructing her path to honesty, testing the strength of her heart and her commitment to face this reality.

Fitran could have raised her hand, calling forth the voidling that trembled before her eyes. She could have rearranged the sentences from the Codex, savoring each word that could potentially be the key to unlocking the window of truth. She could even have conjured the beautiful dream she once shared with Rinoa, manifesting it before them like an astonishing sight that could not be touched. However, it felt like being trapped in her own mind, like a bird confined in a beautiful but narrow cage, confused and unsure of where to step next.

But she did not do it.

"You want proof," she said softly, her voice gentle like the whisper of the wind carrying sad news. "But I... only have a confession." Those words came out, feeling like the tolling of a thousand drums ringing in a fragile soul, echoing in the suffocating silence.

"Confessions cannot be verified," one of them replied, again shrouded in doubt and uncertainty, like a captain in the midst of a stormy sea.

"True."

"But a confession... is the only thing someone can still do when the world does not believe in them." The voice emerged like a small light trying to pierce the darkness, full of hope even though it was nearly extinguished.

"Then we cannot record it."

"It cannot be written in the pactum."

"It cannot be taught." Each word felt like facing a stone wall, rigid and impenetrable, as those sentences were spoken, creating an aura of pessimism that bound them.

"I know," Fitran replied,

"because love that can be taught... often never truly lives." In her breath, there was a surge of desire to scream, wanting the restrained love to be released, soaring free like a bird flying high in the bright sky, mingling with the light and wind that felt freedom.

The voidling appeared, present with a calm aura. She was not aggressive, not fiery, and evoked curiosity. In the silence, only one sentence escaped her lips:

"I still love... even though no one wants to hear me."

That voice hung in the air, stirring the silence within Concordia Hall. The architects fell silent, as if those words touched the deepest parts of their souls.

One among them, an old woman with a nearly faded glyph on her forehead, whispered softly:

"One of them, an old woman with a nearly faded glyph on her forehead, whispered softly: 'My child once said that, before she vanished amidst the chaos, leaving behind a deep wound and buried memories.'"

Fitran did not smile. With an expression full of depth, she placed her hand on the cold, hard stone table:

"Then that is enough."

"Not to save the system. But to save... one conversation, which might become the beginning of a new confession among us all."

From the dim corner of the room, a beam of shadow danced as a strong gust of wind swept across the walls, creating an increasingly poignant atmosphere. The air within Concordia Hall was filled with whispers of the past, as if every corner held forgotten poetic stories, waiting to be revived. The voice of the voidling flowed gently, penetrating the silence that enveloped, and hung in the air like morning dew reluctant to evaporate from its leaves.

Fitran felt a surge in her heart, as if fields of memories filled with flowers of love and wounds clashed, creating a fireworks display of emotions in this isolated mountain space. Each heartbeat solidified the unspoken feelings.

Confession does not yield results.

It does not show success.

It does not prove strength.

But confession allows something to remain alive, even when all physical signs have vanished, leaving a trace in the heart that will never fade.

"I love you."

"I failed."

"I am afraid."

"I am still here."

These confessions are not symbols of strength.

Nor are they magic that can change fate.

However, they are the roots of all will.

One of them—a young man with two badges of void shimmering with mysterious light—asked in a firm yet curious voice:

"So you will not prove anything?"

"No," Fitran replied, her voice warm yet steady.

"Because if I start to prove it... then this love will turn into a cold and calculated strategy."

"And I would rather love you... without proof, but with all my heart and honesty."

Concordia Hall, a magnificent space filled with a sense of nostalgia, did not make decisions but also became a silent witness to Fitran's journey. They allowed Fitran to leave, choosing to let the space remember her presence without demanding a confession, as if acknowledging the deeper meaning of the love that remained.

Inside this stunning building, the old wooden walls creaked as if recounting every second of the passage of time, painting a picture of a treacherous life journey. The aroma of dust and old paint enveloped the air, weighing heavily on Fitran's heart, as if she were serving the memories and unforgettable past.

But as she stepped outside, the walls of the hall began to tremble softly, signaling a change. The old glyphs cracked and broke, not shattered by hatred, but through a gentle process of self-erasure.

They erased themselves.

Outside, the dim twilight light touched Fitran's face, bringing her back to a simpler yet challenging reality. The cold wind whispered in her ear, gently caressing her skin while embracing and challenging her. For the old rigid system... began to accept that not everything needs to be verified.

"You prove nothing," it said skeptically, its face shrouded in shadows.

"But I also do not deny anyone," Fitran replied, her voice calm yet tense, as if she were a candle burning in the midst of a storm.

"Then you still stand?" that voice challenged again, echoing among the walls that seemed to witness the debate.

"Not because it is right. But because I still want to love, even if I am not given space to love," Fitran revealed with a gaze that pierced the boundaries of darkness.

In a world that demands proof for everything, confession is the quietest form of resistance, like morning dew gently clinging to leaves, reminding us that sometimes honesty does not require proof to be acknowledged.

In the corner of her heart, Fitran felt as if she were creating a bridge from dozens of shards of pain and hope—a bridge connecting her sincere love with the uncertainties of the world, trying to bridge the gap between imagination and reality. For every heartbeat, she realized that honesty could be a fire in the darkness, illuminating the risky path she had to face.

And Fitran, who could not prove anyone, still loved them all—because that is the only thing that cannot be taken... even by logic.