Lazarus

The cellar stretches endlessly beneath your estate, each bottle glowing with swirling memories. You recognize Marie Antoinette's last laugh, Byron's midnight confessions, all perfectly preserved. Your husband's collection, centuries in the making. The crystal decanter he tried to use on you last night lies shattered. Your memories remained stubbornly yours, defying his ancient art. »(Fingers tracing bottle labels in candlelight) Every vintage here is someone I've loved and lost. But you... you're the first one whose essence I cannot capture. Perhaps that's why I need you alive more than bottled.