The forest was quiet again.
After the whirlwind of truths from the night before, Elara walked through the dew-kissed glade with her hands tucked close to her chest. The sunrise filtered gently through the canopy, golden light catching the edges of every leaf like fire. But inside her, there was only silence—a soft, uncertain hush that followed a storm too big to name.
She could still feel the way Lysander's words had broken through her like winter breaking into spring. "You were the reason I stayed alive." And yet, he had said it with pain in his eyes. Truth and sorrow braided together.
Their paths had intertwined, yes. But she wondered now—were they walking toward each other, or simply crossing for a moment before parting?
Ahead, the old footbridge creaked under her weight. Moss grew along its wooden rails, just as it had when they were younger. Back then, they'd raced across it, daring each other to make the jump into the water below. She smiled faintly, remembering how Lysander had once carved a heart into one of the beams. She ran her fingers along it now, worn by rain and time.
The heart had faded.
Just like the girl she had been.
---
At the edge of the glade, the others had gathered. Junie was quietly plaiting wildflowers into a crown, while Mira hummed beneath her breath, tuning a flute carved from pale ashwood. Even Cale—ever the skeptic—had taken a softer tone since last night's revelations.
But Lysander was not there.
"Elara," Junie said, eyes warm but cautious. "You didn't sleep."
"I couldn't," she admitted. "It felt… too loud in my head."
Mira nodded in understanding. "He said he was going to the Grove of Shadows this morning."
Elara's heart twisted. The Grove. Where memories whispered and truths revealed themselves in the form of dreams. Where only the brave—or the broken—went searching.
She turned, already knowing she'd follow.
---
The walk was longer than she remembered.
Each step through the underbrush felt like tracing the outline of her own fear. She clutched the satchel at her side, inside which lay the locket Hope had given her—the one that glowed softly when she dreamed of the past.
The trees grew darker the deeper she went. The Grove of Shadows lived up to its name. Light flickered between the twisted trunks like secrets trying to hide. The air was cooler here, but it wasn't cruel. Just… still.
Then she saw him.
Lysander stood with his back to her, facing the ancient tree at the center of the grove. The Memory Tree. Its bark shimmered with runes too old to be read, and its roots reached like hands into the earth.
She didn't call his name. Not yet.
Instead, she watched him lift a small stone from the ground, one carved with the mark of his family. He placed it among others at the foot of the tree. Each stone a memory. Each one a goodbye.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but not weak.
"I never got to tell her," he said. "My sister. She died before I could say I forgave her."
Elara stepped closer, her breath catching. "Forgave her for what?"
"For leaving," he said simply. "Even if she didn't mean to. I hated her for a long time because I didn't know how to hate the pain instead."
His eyes found hers. They were not dry.
Elara sat beside him on the root, their shoulders not quite touching. "I understand that," she said. "Sometimes I think I'm still angry at my mother. Not because she was weak, but because I thought I had to be strong for both of us."
He looked at her then, really looked.
"And are you?" he asked. "Strong?"
"No," she whispered. "But I'm learning."
---
They stayed like that for a long time, saying nothing more. The wind stirred through the grove, rustling the leaves like a lullaby for lost things.
Eventually, Lysander stood. He brushed the moss from his knees and held out his hand. She hesitated—just a second—but then placed hers in his.
As they walked back through the trees, the silence between them felt different now. Not empty, but sacred. Like footsteps in snow—vanishing behind them, but proof they had been there.
---
That night, back at the clearing, a storm rolled in.
Rain danced on the rooftops of the little cabins, thunder growling like distant drums. Elara stood on the porch, staring out into the dark, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders.
Lysander joined her, damp curls falling into his eyes.
"Storms used to scare me," he admitted, brushing the hair away with a sheepish smile.
"Me too," she said. "Now… I think I like them."
He tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because they remind me things can change. Even the sky."
He chuckled softly. "You always see magic in everything."
"You always pretend not to."
They didn't kiss. Not yet.
But when he reached for her hand beneath the cloak, and she didn't pull away, it felt more real than a thousand kisses.
---
Later, she sat by her window with the locket in her palm.
She opened it.
Inside, the picture had faded. Just a blur of color now. But when she closed her eyes, she remembered it perfectly—her father holding her as a baby, her mother laughing, flowers in her hair.
"Some things fade," she murmured, voice trembling.
"But not everything is meant to disappear."