"So, you're from Thailand?" I ask as we walk through the Isles, the faint sound of waterfalls cascading in the distance.

She nods, her eyes wandering over the scenery around us.

"Oh," I say, the memory surfacing naturally, "I was there once. Spent New Year's Eve in Phuket."

I send her a series of images, the vivid memory of fireworks exploding against the night sky, colorful sparks raining down over the crowded streets. I include glimpses of the festivities, the bustling energy, the temples.

She slows her pace, her eyes softening as a faint smile tugs at her lips. A moment later, a series of images flood my mind.

They're strikingly similar to mine—a New Year's Eve in Phuket. She's much younger, perched on the shoulders of a man I assume is her father, her small hands gripping his head as fireworks burst in the sky above them. The streets in her memory are quieter, the glow of raising lanterns and temples reflecting in her wide, awe-filled eyes.

"Did you live there?"

She shakes her head and sends another series of images. It's of a small rural house, its walls made of weathered wood and a thatched roof, nestled between tall coconut trees and sprawling rice paddies. A dirt path winds its way to the house, lined with small shrubs and patches of wildflowers.

In the distance, rolling hills rise against the horizon, partially shrouded in mist. The surroundings are simple but serene, with chickens scratching the ground near a small water jar by the porch, and the faint silhouette of a bamboo clothesline swaying in the breeze.

Her father is outside, training in an open yard where the ground is packed hard from years of use. His movements are sharp and disciplined.

A younger Ayu sits a few feet away on a makeshift wooden bench, her small hands trying to mimic his strikes with clumsy enthusiasm, her wide, curious eyes locked onto him. A playful puppy bounds nearby, yipping as if it too wanted to join the lesson.

I stop for a moment, the image impacting me more than I expected. She notices and stops too.

"You were very cute," I say with a laugh.

She frowns, her lips pressing into a thin line.

I scratch my head, chuckling nervously. "Well, you're still cute."

She paints a fake angry face, and then hits me with a wave.

It's an image of a kid who looks vaguely like me, with an interrogation mark hovering above.

"You want a glimpse of my younger self? Fair enough," I say with a grin.

I pause, thinking quickly about what memory to share next. One in particular comes to mind.

The first image I send is simple: me, eight years old, standing knee-deep in a river of tomato pulp, holding two squishy tomatoes in my hands. My clothes are soaked, my hair plastered to my forehead, red mush everywhere.

"This was during La Tomatina," I say, grinning. "An annual festival in Buñol, Spain, where people gather to throw tomatoes at each other. Basically, a massive, unhygienic, completely unnecessary, and absolutely glorious food fight."

I pause before sending the next image, showing me and the old man. "My dad snuck me in one year. My mom would've never allowed it—she hated the event. Said it was messy, wasteful, and 'utterly barbaric.' Which, of course, made me want to go even more."

The next image comes through: me mid-throw, tomato in hand, launching it with all my might. Then, the inevitable—a shot of me flat on my back, arms splayed, covered head to toe in pulp.

Her laugh is immediate, bright and unrestrained.

"Oh, it's just getting started," I say, sending the next picture. This time, I'm back on my feet, grabbing another tomato, aiming with fierce determination. The following slide? The tomato hits an old man square in the face.

I send the next image: the old man's glare, tomato pulp dripping down his face.

"Yeah, he wasn't thrilled," I say, shaking my head. "I panicked, obviously. Bolted for my life."

The next set of images comes quickly: me slipping in the mush, arms flailing as I skid through the crowd. Then, my dad grabbing the back of my shirt, pulling me up just as someone's foot nearly stomps on my face.

"Hero of the day," I say. "Or so I thought…"

The last image shows me standing there, catching my breath—SPLAT! A tomato lands square on my face, courtesy of my dad.

"And that's him. Always turning the tables." I chuckle softly. "We spent the whole way back trying to wash the tomato pulp off, laughing like idiots. Mom found out, of course. I'm pretty sure Dad had to sleep on the couch for a week."

Meanwhile, Ayu is laughing her head off, nearly doubled over with tears in her eyes.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, and then she sends back an image—a perfect replica of my younger self, tiny and cartoonish. In the image, she's hugging it tightly, squishing it like a doll, a playful grin on her face.

Ok, I don't even know what to say here. Well, let's shift the focus.

"So... what were you doing before The Tower?"

Ayu's laughter cuts off abruptly, her face turning serious. Great… I messed up again.

I stay quiet, waiting for her reaction. She doesn't look angry, just… hesitant? Nostalgic, even sad?

Then a wave hits me.

It shows her tending to an older man in a wheelchair. She's pulling him through the fields, the two of them gazing at the sunset. But something catches my eye—the man looks like her father… only thinner, frail, and sickly. His body is a shadow of what it once was: strong, imposing, muscular.

What happened? Did her father suffer an injury that left him like this? Was it from fighting?

Shit… I shouldn't have asked.

I take a deep breath and step closer to her. She notices and smiles softly.

Stolen story; please report.

"It's ok," she says.

But I can hear it—her voice carries a weight, a pain she's hiding beneath the surface.

Alright. This isn't the way to talk about this. But… I want to know more about her.

I point toward the edge of a nearby cliff overlooking the falls and send her an image of us sitting there.

She nods, and we walk together to the spot, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable.

As we reach the edge, we settle down side by side, the sound of the waterfalls filling the air.

Before I can say anything, she sends me a series of images.

Her father is in the ring, facing his opponent. They circle each other, guards high, their movements deliberate and measured. Her father strikes first—a sharp low kick to the opponent's thigh, landing with a heavy thud and forcing him to step back.

The response is swift—a knee strike aimed at her father's ribs. He raises his forearm just in time, absorbing the impact with a sharp grunt as the force ripples through him.

They close in, exchanging blows. Her father steps forward, landing a crushing elbow to the opponent's temple, forcing him into the clinch. They grapple briefly, knees flying, but her father gains control, landing a powerful knee to his opponent's midsection, doubling him over slightly.

As the opponent stumbles back, her father sweeps his leg with precision, throwing him off balance. For a moment, it seems her father has the upper hand, his movements fluid, precise, and dominant.

Then it happens.

The opponent feints with an elbow, drawing her father's guard slightly off. In an instant, he steps in close, hooking her father's leg with a sweep and using his weight to drive him backward. The force sends her father stumbling, his neck snapping violently against the tension of the ring rope.

Her father collapses, crumpling to the mat, motionless.

The next sequence shows medics rushing into the ring. Her father is on a stretcher, his body limp, his eyes half-closed, unresponsive.

The scene shifts. A hospital room. Her father is hooked up to machines, his body frail, his neck in a brace. Ayu, much younger, sits beside him, her hands tightly clutching his, her face frozen in determination. Doctors are talking, pointing at charts, but the words don't seem to register in the memory.

It transitions again. A young woman stands at the door, a suitcase in her hand. A younger Ayu clutches her arm tightly, tears streaming down her face. The woman pulls away, her expression cold and distant, her steps firm as she walks out without looking back.

Then, the memory shifts further into the past. Another image appears—softer, warmer. A different woman smiles gently, holding a much smaller Ayu in her arms. The setting is simple, peaceful. The woman's face radiates warmth and care as she cradles Ayu, who giggles softly, her tiny hands reaching toward her mother's face.

The next memory feels colder, heavier. The same woman, now lying still, surrounded by flowers. A younger Ayu stands beside the casket, her small hands gripping the edge tightly.

So… her real mom died young. And the first young woman—her stepmom? She left them both?

The memory moves forward again. Ayu stands by her father now. He's in a wheelchair, his body thin and frail. She kneels beside him, holding a small bowl of rice and a spoon, feeding him with careful, patient hands.

Her father struggles to lift his arm, attempting to take the spoon himself, but his hand trembles too much. Ayu gently places her other hand over his, guiding it back down.

And it ends there.

I stay quiet for a moment, the weight of it sinking in. So this… this is what Ayu went through?

Pain hits hard—very hard. I clench my fist. Since she was a kid… she went through life alone, taking care of her paralyzed father, her mother leaving them behind… this…

I look at her, but her gaze is already on me. There are no tears in her eyes, just a heavy smile that carries so much more than words could.

"It's alright," she says, her voice steady. Then she points her thumb at herself, her tone light but firm. "Ayu is strong. Dad is still strong. We are happy."

My mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. The pain hits harder now, but I can't show it—not now. That's not what she needs. I push it down, lock it away, and force a smile of my own. I nod, keeping my voice steady.

"Yes, my Ayu is strong," I say, my hand moving to hold hers. Her hand feels warm against mine, and for a moment, I'm thankful we left the masks and gauntlets back in the cave before our stroll.

Her eyes soften, and there's a gentle glitter in them that catches me off guard. "My Alonso is also strong," she says, gripping my hand in hers.

"I would like to meet your dad one day."

"You will. He… he will like you a lot," she says, her legs dangling and swinging gently over the edge of the cliff.

Then I notice her looking at me, her expression slightly hesitant.

It takes me a moment to realize why. I take a calm breath and send her a series of images.

Basically… my story.

I show her my childhood and teenage years in Barcelona—memories of my slightly adventurous side. I include the good times: my mom, my dad, my grandpa. Then the images shift to Melbourne, where I spent high school and later university. I show her Pablo and Jack—well, the rare moments that are 'safe' to share.

And then, that incident.

I have no actual memories of it—I lost them all. But I show her what I've pieced together. Us three in the car, driving down a rural highway. And then, the crash.

I see her eyes suddenly widen.

I continue, showing her the hospital, my missing leg, my mom in a coma, and… and my father's funeral.

But I don't stop there.

I shift to brighter moments—me with the prosthetic leg, hiking with Jack and Pablo, engrossed in my book back at university. I try to leave her with something lighter, a hint of a happier ending.

When I finish, I glance at her. Her face is tilted down, her expression heavy. I see the pain in her eyes, slightly moist with unshed tears.

Without hesitation, I hold her hand tighter, offering the warmest smile I can.

"It's okay," I say softly, keeping my voice steady and comforting.

"Your mom… she's going to be okay," she says suddenly, catching me off guard. "When we get out, we'll cure her. And… we'll cure my dad too."

Her words hit me like a wave, and for a moment, my hands tremble slightly.

"And then," she continues, "we'll make a big family. Together." She looks at me, her eyes shining. "So let's climb this Tower… let's reach the top… together."

I stare at her, my gaze locked on hers. A future… our future. My mom… my mom will be there. Yes. If I grow stronger, if I push through to the top… no, not if. When I get there…

I let out a quiet chuckle, the intensity inside me melting into something softer, warmer. My gaze stays on hers, as I focus, sending her my emotions through a wave—just like she'd done for me before.

Her eyes shimmer in response, and she sends a wave back. It hits me hard, so raw and full of feeling that my chest tightens, and I feel the sting of unshed tears at the corners of my eyes.

Then, before I can stop myself, I lean closer, the moment pulling me forward. My mouth opens, and the words spill out without hesitation.

"Ayu… when we go back… will you marry me?"

Wait… what did I just say?

Her eyes widen in surprise, her cheeks flushing a deep red. For a moment, she's silent. Then, slowly, her expression softens into the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. She meets my gaze, holding it steady, and finally speaks.

"When we go back… ask me properly."

My mouth hangs open, stunned, and then I laugh—a genuine, uncontrollable laugh—as I shake my head. "Alright. I will."

She turns her face back toward the setting sun, leaning her head gently on my shoulder.

I stare ahead too, the warmth of the moment wrapping around us. I lift my arm, wrapping it securely around her.

And we just sit there, letting time pass, together.

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