Chapter 25: Memories
It rained that night.
Mystic Falls hadn't seen a storm like that in months, as if the sky itself had chosen to share the Salvatore brothers' grief. Thunder split the black clouds like a cry from the heart of the night, while the streets gleamed under shattered light and scattered water, like a cracked mirror reflecting unspoken sorrow.
Inside the Salvatore house, a half-full bottle of bourbon sat on the table, like a breath cut short.
Damon sat with his head lowered, elbows resting on his knees, the glass dangling from his loose fingers. Stefan was leaning against the window, his eyes fixed on the storm, as if it could explain what words had failed to.
Damon spoke suddenly, his voice low and full of what could not be said:
"He hated the rain."
Stefan turned slightly toward him.
"No, he didn't."
A bitter smile formed on Damon's lips.
"Yeah, he did. He used to say it made the world too quiet... like everything was holding its breath, waiting for something worse."
A short silence followed.
Then Stefan sat across from him, letting out a heavy sigh.
"He used to run in the rain. Shirtless, barefoot. Said it made him feel clean again."
Damon looked at his brother, his eyes hiding a long past:
"Seems like each of us saw a different version of him."
Stefan replied in a quiet voice:
"He was both… always."
The silence stretched, and the rain intensified, as if trying to wash away the dirty remains of memory.
Then Damon stood up and walked to a hidden drawer inside one of the old cabinets. He opened it quietly and pulled out something wrapped in a tattered cloth. Without a word, he handed it to Stefan.
Stefan slowly unwrapped it, revealing an old, worn leather journal. It was Alexander's journal.
Stefan asked, eyes wide with something between shock and fear:
"He left it?"
Damon nodded.
"Found it under his bed."
Stefan opened the first page. The handwriting was sharp, angry, as if the ink itself carried buried curses.
"Day one. I'm alive… and I hate them for it."
Stefan felt something catch in his throat as he flipped through the pages.
Pain. Rage. Crushing loneliness.
But in the middle of it all… there were words of love—twisted, confused… love for two brothers who never returned for him. And still, he forgave them before he died.
Stefan whispered, barely hearing himself:
"I don't deserve this."
Damon replied, his voice calm but heavy:
"None of us do. But he gave it to us anyway."
They read in silence, page after page, watching Alexander's torment shift into sorrow, then into quiet acceptance. Until they reached the end of one of the pages, and Stefan's hand trembled as he read aloud in a shaky voice:
"If they ever find this journal… I want them to know I never stopped being their brother. I just… stopped pretending it didn't hurt."
Neither said a word.
Silence stretched on, and inside each of them, a storm raged on.
Then Damon finally said:
"We need to bury it."
Stefan raised a surprised eyebrow:
"Why?"
"Because it's not ours anymore… It's his story. And he finished writing it."
They drove together, past the ruins of the Lockwood mansion, and into the woods, where Alexander once guarded Mystic Falls from the shadows.
Stefan dug the ground, while Damon held the journal as if it were the most precious piece left of him.
They placed it in a wooden box and buried it beneath an old tree—the same one Alexander used to hide beneath, away from the world.
The rain had soaked them to the bone.
Damon raised his glass toward the sky, his voice a blend of pain and sarcasm:
"To the damn brother… we didn't deserve."
Stefan added in a softer, but no less sorrowful voice:
"But we always needed."
They drank.
And the storm kept raging.
---
Now, Stefan sat alone on the Salvatore house porch, staring at the fading light on the horizon. The bourbon bottle beside him remained nearly full. He hadn't touched it. His hands were clasped tightly, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched with restless thoughts. Behind him, the faint creak of a door opening sounded.
It was Damon.
Neither of them spoke for a long while.
Finally, Damon said hoarsely:
"She came today… Elena."
Stefan's eyes didn't move.
"I know."
Damon continued, his voice tinged with frustration and disappointment:
"She's confused… hurting. But she doesn't know why."
He paused, then added:
"She said she felt nothing when Alexander died."
Stefan's fists clenched.
He spoke in a low voice, full of bitterness:
"She didn't know him, Damon… how could she feel anything?"
Damon shook his head, as if something inside him cracked:
"I think that's what hurts me the most… that he died for her, and she didn't even flinch."
Then Stefan turned, his eyes burning—not with anger at Damon, but at the weight of the truth his words carried:
"He hated her. And still… he did what he did."
Then the door opened again, and this time the steps were soft, hesitant.
Caroline came out, her face pale, eyes red from crying—not for Alexander, but for Stefan. Seeing him like this always hurt her. She said nothing, simply sat quietly beside him and gently placed her hand over his.
Inside, Elena stood in the doorway, hidden behind the shadow of the wall. She had come to say something… anything. But now, with the heavy grief hanging outside the windows, she found herself unable to move.
Alexander's room remained untouched. His jacket still hung on the back of the chair, and some strange drawings—dark, filled with shapes that screamed in silence—were folded beneath a book on his desk. Bonnie had found them. She hadn't told anyone yet.
Downstairs, Elijah entered, followed by Rebekah.
Elijah spoke in his calm, heavy tone:
"Damon, Stefan… there's something you need to see."
Damon raised an eyebrow, visibly tired:
"Please don't tell me it's another curse."
Elijah replied without hesitation:
"No… it's a letter."
Stefan stood abruptly, a spark of life returning to him:
"A letter?"
Rebekah nodded, her voice barely audible:
"We found it in his coat after the fight with Klaus… folded and sealed."
Elijah handed the letter to Stefan.
The address was written in firm, slanted script:
"To the brothers I never stopped waiting for."
Stefan opened it with trembling fingers.
He began to read, his voice faltering, each sentence breaking something inside him:
> Stefan, Damon—
> I hated you for a long time.
> Not because you left… but because you never knew I was still alive.
> You didn't look. Maybe you couldn't. Maybe it would've broken you.
> But I waited… anyway.
> You were always my heroes. Even when you didn't deserve it.
> Even when you became monsters… I kept waiting.
> Because I wanted to believe family meant more than blood… more than memory.
> I'm not writing this for guilt. I'm writing because I saw you fight. I saw how you bled for me. And for the first time in over a hundred years… I felt like your brother again.
> Maybe that was enough.
> If you're reading this… it means I'm gone. And that means I chose. Don't carry this weight. You gave me more than I ever thought possible.
> Don't waste what you have left.
> Live. Forgive. Be better.
> Your brother,
Alexander
At the end, neither of them could look at the other. Even Damon turned his face away, his eyes burning with painful heat.
Elijah remained silent for a moment, then said quietly:
"You meant something to him… even if he couldn't say it."
Rebekah added, her voice bleeding with longing:
"He was the best of you… all your pain, all your strength… gathered in one broken soul."
Stefan folded the letter carefully, as if it might break.
And somewhere deep inside them, in that house cloaked in sorrow, something happened… something changed.
A wound was etched into the heart of Mystic Falls—
And even if it healed someday… it would never fully mend.
Not for them.
Not after Alexander.
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