The wind whispered low through the hollow pine branches as I stood at the edge of the grove. Winter clung to the forest like a second skin—quiet, silver, and aching. I hadn't come here in weeks. Not since her warmth had faded from the snow-covered paths.
But I remembered. I remembered every step she took. I remembered the way her laughter felt like fireflies in the cold, flickering and soft, always lighting a way I didn't know I was following.
Her name hadn't left my lips in days.
I had whispered it once—into the collar of my coat when no one could hear. And the sound of it cracked in my throat like frost on glass.
But now, something had brought me back.
I stepped beneath the twisted archway of vines that had long since lost their green. My fingers brushed one of the brittle stems, and it snapped at my touch.
Like a memory too fragile to hold.
The firelight tree stood waiting. Silent, strong, half-buried in snow—but not sleeping. Its roots curled above the frozen earth like old secrets.
I knelt beside it.
"She loved this place," I murmured to no one.
My voice didn't echo. The forest swallowed it like it had swallowed her.
And then I heard it.
Soft. Softer than the wind.
My name.
Like a whisper through the branches.
I froze.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, my breath caught mid-air, and I turned—slowly—toward the sound.
Nothing.
Just the hush of wind through skeletal leaves.
But I knew her voice.
It had lived inside me longer than I cared to admit.
I stood, heart pounding, eyes darting between the trees. "Liora?" I said, the name rising like a question, a hope, a wound.
No answer.
Until—
"Asher."
Clear. Breathless. Real.
Her voice.
Not in my head. Not a memory.
A living echo.
I ran.
Not toward, but through. Through the pines, past the glade we had once danced in under moonlight, past the river where her tears had fallen into mine, past everything we had lost.
And then—I saw her.
Standing where the moonlight pooled like milk and stars.
She wasn't a ghost.
She wasn't a dream.
Liora stood with her arms wrapped around herself, hair tangled from wind and silence. Her eyes were the color of all the songs I hadn't dared to sing.
She didn't speak at first.
She didn't need to.
I reached her, breathless, scared of blinking—afraid she'd vanish with the next breath.
"You called my name," I said, voice barely audible over the sound of the world shifting.
She nodded.
And the snow began to fall again.
Not like before. Not cruel. Not bitter.
Like forgiveness.
Like grace.
"I thought I lost you," I whispered.
"I thought I lost myself," she answered.
She stepped closer.
I didn't know if I should reach for her. I didn't know if I was allowed to.
But then she took my hand.
Warm. Steady.
Real.
Her fingers trembled as they curled into mine. "I've been walking for days," she said, voice soft like the hush between two heartbeats. "I thought if I kept walking, I'd forget."
"Forget me?"
"Forget the pain."
I looked at her. Really looked. And I saw it—the shadows under her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she bit her lip to keep from breaking.
I had never seen her this fragile.
And yet—she was still standing.
Still glowing in the dark.
"I'm sorry," I said, because it was all I could say.
"For what?"
"For the silence. For not running after you sooner. For every time I let you believe you were alone."
Her gaze softened.
"You don't have to say that now."
"But I do," I said. "Because it's true. And because this—this moment—it might be the only thing I get to keep."
Her eyes filled. Not with tears. But with something older. Deeper.
Love, maybe.
Or something close enough to break me.
"You were always what I held onto," she whispered. "Even when I didn't know it."
The wind picked up, spinning snowflakes around us like stars being born.
She leaned into me, head against my chest. I held her there, arms around her shoulders, and for the first time in what felt like forever—I breathed.
Full. Free.
The silence didn't hurt anymore.
It felt like peace.
We stood like that for a long time.
No words.
No need.
Only the steady rhythm of two hearts remembering.
And then—
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "Do you remember," she asked, "the first time I said your name?"
"In the glade," I said. "You were angry."
She laughed. "I was scared."
"I think," I said, "I was too."
She touched my cheek. Her fingers still shook. But she didn't pull away.
"I'm not scared anymore," she said.
"Me neither."
"I want to stay," she whispered. "I want to stop running."
"Then stay," I said, like it was the simplest promise in the world.
Because it was.
Because when she called my name again—this time with no fear, no hurt, just hope—I finally understood what love sounded like.
Not fireworks.
Not thunder.
Just a voice in the dark.
Saying your name like it matters.
And knowing—somehow—that you'll never forget how it feels.