The moon slid behind a thin veil of clouds, dimming the bridge in silvery shadow.
The boards beneath our feet creaked softly with the shifting wind.
I stepped closer, so close that if I reached out — if she reached out — we could almost touch the water.
"Anara," I whispered, using her name for the first time.
It felt fragile on my tongue, as though the sound itself might shatter.
Her shoulders flinched.
No one had said her name with that softness for a long time.
She closed her eyes, her knuckles white on the railing.
Her lips moved, barely forming the words.
"I can't do this anymore. I'm tired. I've been tired for so long."
"I know," I said quietly. "I know that tiredness. I've stood where you're standing now. I thought there was peace in the fall. But there wasn't. There was only darkness and a voice that laughed at my pain."
Her head turned slightly, just enough that I could see the glint of her tear-streaked cheek in the moonlight.
For a moment her eyes met mine — not with hope, not yet, but with a flicker of something else: curiosity.
A question.
Is there really nothing beyond the water but more suffering?
I held her gaze.
"You've already survived the worst. All you need to do now is stay for one more night. Just one. You don't have to promise me forever. Only that you'll keep breathing until the sun rises."
The river below lapped gently at the pilings.
Her hands trembled.