Threads of Suspicion
The burden of memory weighed down, threatening to engulf him in its unyielding tide. His lungs scorched as if with every breath he struggled against some unseen opponent, every outbreath empty with sorrow and yearning. And then—softness. Comfort that pierced the tempest. Fingers, light and firm, traced across his palm, a soft anchor against the turmoil that sought to drag him down.
Leon turned, moved by habit more than cognition. By his side, a hooded figure leaned in, the gentle smell of tranquility washing over him. Nova. Her calm emanated around her like a force, a bulwark to the now, anchoring him in a softness that cut starkly against the tempest raging within his head. Under the darkness of her hood, her green eyes sparkled in the light, glimmering with worry that was almost a caress, almost that it could reach inside of him and patch the tattered edges of his soul.
