Lucian woke to thunder.
Not from the sky—but from his chest.
The memory hadn't faded. It clung to him like damp smoke, curling under his skin. The forest. Kyrell's eyes. That storm that never quite ended. He sat upright in bed, breath caught between disbelief and dread, the sheets tangled around his legs like they'd tried to hold him down.
But then he heard it again.
A tap. Soft. Barely a knock. Somewhere above.
Lucian didn't move at first. He just listened—to the way the wind skated past the broken window frame, to the rain tapping against old tiles.
Then, again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The roof.
He threw off the blanket and moved toward the attic stairs without thought. The air grew colder with every step. This wasn't a dream anymore, was it?
He reached the top, and the trapdoor creaked open.
Rain spilled in like it had been waiting. The wind shrieked past him, wild and bitter. And then—
He saw him.
Kyrell stood on the roof, soaked, shirt clinging like a second skin. Eyes like they'd never looked away.
"Lucian," he said. A voice like ash and velvet.
Lucian couldn't speak. Couldn't move. The attic spun.
"I never left," Kyrell added. "You just stopped looking."
The words hit like nails driven into wet wood.
When Lucian blinked—Kyrell was gone.
Only the wind remained, howling through the attic like it remembered everything.