"The mind breaks where it bends too long. And sometimes, it bends toward comfort."
—Arithmantic Theory of Will
The dining room felt older than the rest of the manor. The ceilings sat a little higher, the walls a little thicker, as if this space had learned to keep secrets long before the rest of the house. The air carried polish and something faintly sweet beneath it, the trace of flowers that had once stood in the silver vases lining the table.
Blaise was already seated when she entered. His chair was turned slightly toward the door, as though he had been listening for her steps.
She crossed the length of the table without glancing at the empty places set along either side. She chose the seat directly opposite him and sat down, smoothing her robe beneath her with quiet care. The candlelight caught in her hair as she moved, turning the loose strands bright for a second. He had meant to greet her properly. The words slipped from him when he saw her.
The meal was already laid out. White porcelain, gold edging, silver placed with precision. The decanter rested between them, the wine inside deep and almost black in the low light.
He reached for it first. He poured into her glass before his own, watching the red roll against crystal and settle. For a while, that was the only movement between them.
Their forks touched porcelain. Knives scraped softly. The clock in the corner ticked on.
Luna set her fork down first. "There used to be a bridge," she said, as if continuing a thought from somewhere else. "Across a valley in the north. You could see the river under it. Green in summer. Grey in winter. One spring the water rose higher than it should have and the bridge disappeared overnight. They say fish live in the arches now. The stones hum when the current gets strong."
He looked up at her, giving nothing away.
"There was a tree too," she went on. "In a village that might not exist anymore. It was taller than any roof. At dusk it looked like it was holding the sky in place. A storm brought it down. The villagers burned the trunk to keep warm. They said it smelled like honey."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "You tell it like you were there."
"Maybe I was." She lifted her glass, eyes lowered. "Maybe I dreamed it and forgot which is which."
He leaned back slightly in his chair. "What else have you dreamed of?"
She considered that. "An orchard. The apples were the color of dusk. My father told me stories while I ate. I remember the taste more than his words."
The clock ticked again, steady and patient.
"You make it sound like everything you speak of still exists somewhere," he said.
She tilted her head. "Maybe it does. Maybe it's waiting for someone to remember it."
He watched her hands circle the stem of her glass. She moved as though she had all the time in the world.
After a moment she looked at him properly. "Have you ever seen the sea in winter?"
"No," he said. "I've seen it in summer. When the sky is soft and the water behaves."
She smiled at that. "You should go in winter. The air cuts when you breathe. The waves don't pretend to be gentle. It's lonely in a way that makes you feel almost holy."
"You like that feeling?"
"It reminds me that I'm alive." She turned the wine slowly in her glass. "Even ghosts can forget that sometimes."
He felt that land somewhere deep and refused to follow it.
The wine warmed him enough to make him careless. He wanted to reach across the table and trace the inside of her wrist, to see if she would let him. Instead, he picked up the decanter and refilled her glass.
The wine struck crystal with a soft sound. She did not look at him, but she lifted her hand as soon as he set the bottle down. Her fingers brushed the back of his. He held still and let it pass.
They sat in silence again. It did not press or strain. It simply settled between them.
Luna pushed her plate away. She turned toward the tall windows. The night outside had swallowed everything. The glass reflected the candles and her face in the same breath.
He watched her reflection rather than turning in his chair. There was something in her expression that felt far away.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Nothing important." She kept her eyes on the window. "I like how the dark makes everything inside look warmer."
He nodded once. "You make it look warmer."
She glanced at him then, amused. "You've had too much wine."
"Possibly." He let the corner of his mouth lift. "Or maybe you are just good at it."
"Good at what?"
"Making the world feel less ruined."
Her gaze dropped, and he caught the color rising at her throat. She took another sip of wine. "That's a dangerous thing to say."
"It's honest."
The air between them shifted. Neither of them moved closer, yet something drew tighter.
"You're staring," she said lightly.
"I know."
"Why?"
He met her eyes. "Because I feel like I'll miss something if I don't."
Her expression softened in a way that caught him off guard. "You won't," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
He smiled before he could stop himself.
The candles burned lower. The bottle was nearly empty. She rested her chin on her hand and traced faint shapes across the table with her other, lost in her own thoughts.
He watched her fingers. Watched the light move across her skin. He thought he could sit there forever and let the night hold them.
Eventually she stood. She reached for her shawl and draped it around her shoulders. "Thank you for dinner," she said.
"Thank you for the stories."
"They weren't all true," she replied with a small smile.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "You told them well."
She lingered for a heartbeat, looking at him with that quiet, unreadable calm. Then she turned toward the doorway. The hall light caught her hair and turned it pale gold before she stepped into shadow.
He remained at the table, staring at the empty chair reflected in the dark window. The room still smelled of wine and wax and the faint trace of her perfume.
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By the time the candles burned low, the corridors had quieted. The laughter that had drifted through the manor earlier had sunk behind closed doors. Footsteps faded. The house settled into itself with the faint creak of wood and the soft stir of curtains shifting somewhere out of sight.
Blaise had meant to pass through without stopping. He was on his way back from the library, one hand tucked into his pocket, already thinking about the work waiting in his study. The silence felt ordinary to him, almost comfortable.
Then he heard it.
At first he thought it was the wind. A faint rise and fall that did not belong to the scrape of stone or the sigh of old beams. He slowed. It came again. A tune without words, soft and steady, drifting down the corridor.
He turned the corner near the east staircase and saw her.
Luna walked ahead of him, barefoot, her dress brushing lightly over the carpet runner. She was humming to herself. The sound was low and even, it seemed to exist for its own sake.
Her gaze stayed forward, fixed somewhere beyond the reach of candlelight. For a strange moment he had the feeling that she was moving through a space he could not enter, though she was only a few steps away.
He stopped before she could see him, lingering in the shadow where the corridor widened into an alcove. He could have called her name. He could have stepped forward and broken the quiet. Instead he leaned his shoulder against the cool stone and listened.
The melody shifted as she walked. It dipped into something softer, then lifted into a few bright notes that almost sounded playful before settling again. It was unfamiliar. He knew he would not find it in any book or hear it at any gathering.
She passed the staircase without going down, her hand sliding along the banister as though checking that it was still there. Her head tilted slightly, as if she were listening for something else. For one second he wondered if she felt him watching, if she could sense the weight of his attention in the dark. She did not turn.
She kept walking. The hum thinned until it faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of her steps.
He remained where he was until she disappeared around the bend. The corridor felt different after she left, as if the air had changed shape.
He could have gone back to his study. There was no reason to stand there any longer. Still, he stayed.
When he finally pushed himself away from the wall, the tune came back to him in fragments. A few notes. A rise. A fall. It was already slipping from his memory.
He felt the loss of it more than he expected.
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Morning light slipped through the panes of the greenhouse in long, pale bands, turning the air faintly gold. Condensation clung to the glass and trailed downward in slow lines. The scent of damp soil and open blooms hung heavy enough to taste.
Luna stepped inside and paused just past the threshold.
Blaise was already there. He stood near the door that opened toward the eastern grounds, one shoulder resting against the frame. His coat hung loose, collar open, as if he had been there long enough for the heat to settle into his clothes. He looked as though he had been waiting.
"Come with me," he said.
His tone was calm, almost casual, but his eyes stayed on her with steady intent.
She glanced toward the sunlight spilling through the outer door, then back at him. "Where?"
"The garden," he replied, nodding toward the grounds beyond the greenhouse. "It is a good day for it."
"All right."
The ease of her answer made something tighten in his chest. He had expected questions, a delay, something to push against. Instead she walked toward him at once, her steps light, the hem of her dress catching briefly on a board before she freed it with a small tug.
He opened the door for her. Warm air drifted in, clean and bright, carrying the scent of grass and the faint trace of the sea.
They walked side by side without speaking. The silence between them felt settled rather than strained. Birds moved in the hedges. The sky was a clear, soft blue, brushed with thin clouds that seemed to thin even as they watched.
When they reached the walled garden, the grass lay thick beneath their feet. Flowerbeds spilled over in color. Bees worked steadily among the blossoms. The stone walls held the sun's warmth.
He had been there earlier. A blanket lay spread beneath a pear tree, the sunlight filtered through its branches. At the center waited a silver tray arranged with fresh fruit, warm bread, soft cheese, and a slender bottle of pale wine resting in ice.
She did not comment on the preparation. She lowered herself onto the blanket, folding her knees beneath her as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
He sat opposite her and poured the wine into two thin glasses. The liquid caught the light as it rose.
Luna reached for a slice of pear. She bit into it slowly, juice bright against her lips. Her gaze drifted across the garden.
"These are better than the ones near the front gate," she said. "Sweeter. You can taste the light they get here."
He watched her as she wiped a drop of juice from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, unaware of the effect it had on him. She leaned back on her hands and tipped her face toward the sky.
"What do you see?" he asked.
She squinted slightly. "A bird. A ship. That one's a kettle, I think." She tilted her head, studying a long, pale streak. "And that one looks like the ghost of a ribbon someone lost."
A breeze moved through the branches. Petals fell between them. She caught one, examined it briefly, then let it drift from her palm.
They spoke of small things. She told him which flowers closed their petals before rain. He pointed out a patch of violets that had survived the frost. She admitted she liked the shape of violets more than their scent. He said he had never considered the difference before.
For her, it was simple. A warm day. Fruit. Sunlight.
For him, it felt fragile. He found himself watching every small movement she made. The turn of her head. The way she laughed at something that did not need to be funny. He had the strange fear that if he looked away too long, the moment would dissolve.
The wine in his glass sat untouched.
The afternoon thinned slowly. Shadows lengthened across the grass. The air cooled just enough to remind them that evening would come.
Neither of them moved from the blanket.
Conversation gave way to quiet. Insects hummed. Leaves shifted overhead. The light deepened into honey, catching at the edges of petals and making them glow.
A petal drifted down and landed near the wine bottle, turning once before going still.
From the hedge, Bubbles emerged. She moved toward them with her steady, almost dreamy gait. She settled at Luna's side and lowered her head into Luna's lap.
Luna's fingers slid into her fur at once, stroking in a slow rhythm.
Blaise reached for the bottle and found only enough left for one more glass. He poured carefully. The wine flashed pale gold in the last of the sunlight.
He held the glass out to her.
Their fingers brushed as she took it. Neither of them pulled away immediately. Her skin was warm from the sun. He felt the faint pulse beneath her wrist before she curled her fingers around the stem.
It was an easy touch. Small. Explainable.
They let it linger for one heartbeat longer than necessary.
The air between them tightened, almost imperceptibly. The space that had felt open a moment ago drew in closer, awareness sharpening until even the bees seemed quieter. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.
She tipped her head back to drink. Her throat moved in a slow swallow. The glass caught the last strip of sunlight before it slipped behind the wall, and the light slid through her hair, turning it molten for a breath.
He watched her openly. There was no point pretending otherwise. Every detail of her in that fading light felt carved into him.
He had wondered before whether wanting her this way was its own kind of wrongdoing.
She lowered the glass and looked at him. She did not ask why he was staring.
There was no accusation in her eyes. There was no invitation either. Only that steady calm she carried everywhere, even here, where the world felt briefly far away.
The sun drained out of the garden by degrees. Gold thinned to ash. The hour hovered between day and night, when everything seems to pause before the first star shows itself.
Luna shifted on the grass and stroked Bubbles once more. The mooncalf made a soft sound and pressed her glowing nose to Luna's wrist before settling heavily into the earth. The grass curved around her pale body. Her glow dimmed until it looked like a lantern left burning in another room.
Luna stood, brushing dirt from her palms. The scent of damp soil and cooling stone rose around them. Leaves rustled faintly in the walls.
Blaise stepped closer.
He moved carefully, as though each inch forward might undo him. He looked at her as if she were both an answer and a punishment.
His hand lifted, hesitant enough to tremble. He touched her face. His palm was warm. His thumb hovered near the corner of her mouth.
She held his gaze, pale eyes steady, lips closed.
He bent toward her slowly. His mouth brushed the corner of hers, a kiss that waited to be finished.
"This is not a date, Blaise."
The words fell into the evening like stones into water. Even the vines seemed to still.
He pulled back slightly. His hand remained on her cheek, though it felt as though it might scorch him.
"Ohm… yeah, sure," he stammered. "No, yes, of course. Not a date. I… I'm sorry."
The apology rushed out thin and fragile. His voice caught on it.
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "If you need something, you can just take it. That is all you've ever done."
He recoiled as if struck. His hand dropped from her face.
"Stop it! Do not say that."
The force in his own voice startled him. He stepped closer. His shadow slid across hers as the last light disappeared.
"I do not want to take everything that you will not give me freely," he said. The words came rough and heavy.
She tilted her head, the faintest curve at her mouth. "Do you now?"
Her tone was even. That calmness cut deeper than anger would have.
Something in him gave way. His breath turned uneven. His hands lifted again, then stopped just short of her shoulders. The small gap between them felt unbearable.
"I am begging you," he said, the first words barely above a whisper. Then his voice cracked open. "I am begging you, baby girl. Just forgive me."
The word forgive hung there, raw and exposed. His chest rose and fell sharply. He had not meant to sound so undone. He had not meant to sound like this at all.
He felt himself sink without intending to. Luna did not step back.
Her silence grew heavier. She looked at him as if she could see through every frantic apology, every sharp edge of guilt.
He could not bear the way she held him there, stripped of defense, stripped of pride.
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tight, breath unsteady, standing in the dark with nothing left to hide behind.
His voice rose again, raw and uneven, striking the glass walls and coming back to him thinner.
"Do you hear me? I am not asking. I am on my knees in front of you, even when I stand. I will crawl until my bones break if that is what it takes. You do not understand, you cannot understand what it is to wake and feel this poison in your chest, to feel it eating you alive, knowing it is my fault, knowing it is me. Do not make me walk this house like a ghost, do not make me live inside walls that echo with what I did to you."
The words ripped out of him in a rush. His voice scraped against itself until it sounded rough, almost feral. He was shouting, though it felt less directed at her and more thrown into the air between them.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. His nails pressed into his palms until the sting sharpened and warmth gathered there.
Her silence had weight. It did not tremble. It did not bend. It stood between them and forced him to stand inside it.
Something in him gave way under that gaze.
His knees buckled. He hit the stone hard enough that the impact echoed along the path. The shock of it jolted up through his bones, but he barely felt it. His breath came in ragged pulls as he folded forward, shoulders caving, as though his body had finally surrendered to the truth he had been trying to outrun.
"Forgive me," he said again.
This time it was a whisper, frayed at the edges, hardly more than air.
"Please."
The last of the twilight clung to her hair and shoulders, outlining her in a pale glow. She stood above him, steady, unreadable. The vines along the greenhouse glass gave a faint hum as the evening settled, and for a long stretch the only sound was his breathing, uneven against the quiet.
She let him kneel.
She let the silence do its work.
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The rug was worn flatin the old room, in a narrow path between the window and the chair with the crooked back. Curtains dragged along the floor, heavy and stubborn, as if they had forgotten how to hang properly.
Luna chose the crooked chair.
She tucked her legs beneath her and rested her chin against her knee, as though she had always meant to sit there. A single moth drifted lazily near the dead lamp, circled once, then settled again without commitment.
"Do you know what a thestral looks like, Blaise?" she asked.
He sat across the room in a low chair, one elbow propped against the arm. He had been watching the dust, not her. Now he looked up. "I've seen drawings," he said. "Nothing that felt quite real."
She gave a small smile. "Drawings never are."
The house made a soft settling sound somewhere in the walls. She continued, her voice steady, as if she were describing something she had seen yesterday.
"Their hides aren't black. They only look that way because they swallow light. You think they're made of shadow. They're just the color of what's been left behind."
He swallowed before he meant to. "Left behind."
"They're quieter than people expect," she went on. "They graze carefully. As if the ground might bruise. Their wings fold tight, very tidy. And their eyes aren't black either. They're brown. Warm brown. If you stand close enough you can see light move in them. Even when the sky is covered."
He realized he had been holding his breath and let it go slowly. "You've seen them then."
"I have."
She offered nothing more than that, and he did not ask. There were some things in her voice that felt closed to questions.
A clock ticked faintly somewhere beyond the door.
"Tell me something else," he said.
She tipped her head slightly. "You want another story?"
"I want your voice to keep doing that," he said before he could stop himself. "The thing where it sounds like the world still exists."
Her eyes shifted, softer now. "My father used to tell me about a library," she said. "It stood in Diagon Alley, before I was born. Very narrow. It was squeezed between a cauldron shop and a place that sold charms that rarely worked the same way twice. The shelves leaned toward each other. Books pressed spine to spine. My father said if you stood still enough you could hear them whisper."
"Whisper what?"
"Page against page," she said. "Ink remembering ink."
"And what happened to it?"
"It burned. On a night without wind."
He frowned. "Accident?"
"Maybe. Or a man who thought knowledge belonged in vaults."
He gave a quiet, humorless breath. "That sounds familiar."
She watched the dust in the light instead of him. "My father kept a scrap from one of the pages. He said if you breathed in close it smelled like cinnamon."
"Did it?"
"No." She shook her head gently. "It smelled like old rain."
He leaned forward without thinking, elbows on his knees, studying the way her fingers rested loosely around her ankle.
"You sound like you miss things you never had," he said.
"Maybe," she answered. "Or maybe I just listen."
He let that sit between them.
"What else have you listened to?" he asked.
"The Black Forest," she said after a moment. "Not the one here. The older one. The trees are straight and tall. The ground hums under your feet if you stand long enough. There were creatures there once. Small. They sang at dawn and dusk."
"Birds?"
She shook her head. "No. Something different. The sound threaded through the trees. It felt like ribbon pulled between branches."
"And you've heard them?"
"Not with my ears." She touched her temple lightly. "Here."
He held her gaze. "What did it sound like?"
She thought about it. "Like the cold part of a river. The part that never warms. You could feel it on your skin."
He could almost see it as she spoke.
"They stopped singing after the war began," she said. "Maybe they learned to be quiet. Maybe they left. Maybe the forest invented them so people would be afraid to cut it down."
"You'd forgive the forest either way," he said.
"Of course."
He sat back slowly.
The room felt less empty now, even though nothing had changed. The wallpaper still curled. The grate still held ash. The moth still hovered near the lamp.
He wanted to tell her that he had always trusted hard lines and solid proof. That he had built his life around things that could be counted, guarded, controlled. That her way of speaking about the world unsettled him in a way that felt dangerously close to relief.
Instead he said, "You make it sound worth saving."
She looked at him then, fully.
"It always is," she said.
She moved on as if the stories were simply stepping stones laid out in front of her.
"There used to be a shop in the north that sold thread spun from thistledown and morning frost. It disappeared when people stopped telling the truth."
He blinked at her. "Stopped telling the truth?"
She nodded, a small smile lifting one corner of her mouth. "If you sewed with it and lied, the thread would vanish. Completely. Only returned once you'd said what was true."
A quiet laugh left him before he could stop it. "That would have ruined half of society."
"Maybe that's why it's gone," she said, her eyes bright.
She shifted in the chair and reached for the chipped teacup beside her. Her fingers wrapped around it as if it were something warm and living.
"There was also a clock tower," she went on. "It rang one note for grief and another for luck. But three times, it rang both together. People refused to leave their homes until it stopped."
He watched her closely. "Why?"
"They thought the world was confused," she said. "They waited for it to decide."
His lips curved despite himself. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"Do you ever make these up?"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But those aren't the good ones."
Her gaze drifted to the far window where age had clouded the glass. "There was a teahouse, once. They served sugared violets with the bill. No fortune telling, no prophecies. Just little napkins with pressed leaves tucked inside. People kept them under their pillows to dream more kindly."
"Did it work?"
"Not for everyone."
"Would it work for you?"
She smiled, and there was something fragile in it. "I think I dream kindly enough already."
He wanted to argue. He had seen the stillness she carried. He knew it had edges. But he kept his mouth shut.
She took another sip of tea, still facing the window. "And there was a bridge that refused horses after dusk. It only allowed people who were walking. Said hooves were too proud for crossing."
"Said?" he repeated, faint amusement in his voice.
She lifted one shoulder. "Bridges listen. The ones that last do."
"And do you?"
Her eyes found his. "Do I what?"
"Listen."
A small smile widened. "I try."
He leaned back. The chair gave a soft protest under his weight. "And what does the house tell you?"
"That you are trying very hard not to frighten me," she said.
He stared at her. "Am I failing?"
"Not yet."
A short breath of laughter escaped him. "Good. I've been told I'm better suited for silence."
"Silence isn't always a weakness," she said. "Sometimes it's just a different way of speaking."
He studied her with open curiosity. "You always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like the world's still listening."
She tilted her head slightly. "It is. Most people just stopped giving it anything worth hearing."
The room quieted around them. The moth drifted back to the lamp and settled. The fire in the grate shifted faintly, more memory than flame.
She paused near the doorway and said, "You make forgetting seem like the cruelest thing."
"It is," she replied.
The light outside had thinned to something pale. The roses on the wallpaper looked faintly visible again, as if they had woken for a moment.
A moth brushed the window and returned, stubborn in its small path.
Blaise watched her hands resting loosely in her lap. "Do you ever think they miss us?" she asked suddenly, her eyes still on the moth.
"Who?" His voice came low.
"The things that disappear. Bridges. Forests. Creatures no one names anymore. Do you think they notice being gone?"
He considered it. "I don't know. Maybe they get tired of waiting to be remembered."
She smiled faintly. "Or maybe they remember us instead."
He let that pass without answer.
She shifted, folding her legs beneath her again as if preparing to settle in for another long telling. "There's a tree," she said. "It grows alone on a hill near a village no one visits anymore. Bells hang from its branches. No one knows who tied them there. They only ring for footsteps, not for wind. If you go to that tree to make a choice you've been afraid to make, the bells will ring and tell you to look west before you speak. If you go for any other reason, they stay silent."
"And you went?" he asked.
"I did," she said. "Once. Out of curiosity. I didn't have a choice to make. Only questions I wasn't ready to ask."
"What happened?"
"The bells stayed quiet."
He frowned. "You weren't angry?"
She shook her head. "Not everything needs a reason to be silent."
He leaned forward, drawn in despite himself. "You sound like you understand that better than most."
"You sound like you don't."
A dry laugh slipped from him. "I've spent my whole life explaining silence. Giving it names, prices, orders. I thought it was for people who couldn't act."
"And now?"
He looked down at his hands. "Now I think I never learned how to keep it."
The quiet settled again, steady and close.
After a moment she began another story.
"When I was little, my father used to tell me about a kitchen that was always warm, even when the fire went out. The kettle sang a note too high. The floor held the day's heat long after night came. There were mismatched cups and a garden that ignored fences. I remember a pair of boots by the door. Someone left them there and never came back."
"You remember all that?" he asked.
"Not with my head," she said. "Just with something that lives close to my ribs."
He nodded slowly. "Your father sounds like he knew how to keep small things."
"He did," she said quietly. "Until the war taught him not to."
He cleared his throat. "I used to have gardens too. Perfect ones. The kind that reminded you who paid for them."
"Did you like them?"
He thought about it. "I think I liked that they liked me. That they grew for me. There's a difference."
She hummed softly. "The difference matters."
He leaned back again. "What do you think this room remembers?"
She smiled. "The weight of people who stayed too long."
"Then it remembers me already," he said.
She did not argue.
The house filled the silence with small sounds. A draft at the window. A faint clink in the hall.
"When I was a child," she continued, "I used to imagine every room in a house carried a single word. One that stayed in the air even when everyone left. Kitchens kept hunger. Bedrooms kept promise. Gardens kept envy. Drawing rooms…" She paused. "They kept secrets."
"And what word does this one keep?"
"Patience."
He nodded. "It has chosen well."
She studied him. "You make it sound like you envy it."
"Maybe I do."
"You're not the first person to mistake stillness for peace."
"And you're not the first person to mistake peace for forgiveness," he said quietly.
Her gaze dropped, then rose again.
"Do you want forgiveness?" she asked.
"I don't think it belongs to me."
"Then what do you want?"
He answered without deflection. "For you to keep talking."
She smiled, softer now. "About what?"
"Anything. The way you do. Like it still matters."
She leaned back, considering him. "Then I'll tell you something else."
He nodded. "Please."
"There's a bridge in the north," she said. "It was built on a dare. The builders swore it would never fall. For years it didn't. Until one night it refused to let horses cross. Only people on foot. No one knows why."
"A bridge that chooses who to trust?"
She nodded. "Bridges listen. The ones that survive do."
"And what does this one say?"
"That pride is heavy."
He let out a slow breath. "You should write these down."
"I don't need to," she said. "I just need to keep saying them until someone else remembers."
"Then I'll remember," he said.
She looked at him carefully. "Will you?"
"Yes." His voice was rough now. "I will."
She rose and smoothed her skirt. "Then you should practice listening."
"I am," he said. "I've never done anything else since you walked in."
A small laugh slipped from her. "You'll ruin the quiet if you keep talking like that."
"Maybe," he said. "But you started it."
She gathered her shawl and moved toward the door. At the threshold she paused.
"Not everything that disappears is lost," she said.
"And not everything that stays is safe," he replied.
She gave him one last, brief smile and stepped into the corridor. Her footsteps were light. A soft hum followed her, threading through the walls.
He remained seated long after the sound faded.
He did not follow. The doorway felt like a line he was not ready to cross. His hand rested against the wood, rough beneath his palm.
Her humming slipped further away. Once it faltered, then steadied again. He held on to that small break in the tune.
A thin crack ran up the wall toward the ceiling. Near the top, a faint pencil mark showed a height recorded long ago. He did not need a name to know whose it was.
The moth returned to the window. The light outside had turned pale.
Only when the silence stopped sounding like her did he stand.
He crossed the room and touched the back of the chair she had used. The fabric felt warm. He let himself believe it was.
The room seemed different now. As if it had kept something.
He stepped into the hall too late to see her.
His hand brushed the wall where her shoulder might have passed. The plaster was cool and still.
The house did not lean toward him. It did not retreat. It held what it had been given and nothing more.
He stayed there until the light dimmed further and the moth folded its wings.
When he finally turned away, his sleeve whispered against his wrist. It sounded faintly like pages turning.
He let the house keep its roses and its patience. He walked on without asking for anything else.
⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆
The house had gone silent again, that particular silence that belonged only to deep night when even the wind seemed to have retreated into its own corners. Shadows gathered along the edges of the ceiling, long shapes that shifted whenever the moonlight pushed through a gap in the curtains. Luna lay on her back in the wide bed, her hair fanned pale across the pillow, her wrist resting lightly on her chest. She had not moved for some time, though her heart had not yet slowed from earlier.
Her eyes traced the cracked plaster overhead. She felt the echo of his mouth against her skin as clearly as if it had just happened, a warmth pressed into her pulse, delicate and dangerous.
She had not expected him to touch her like that. Not Blaise, not the man who carried violence like a second skin, who had ruined so many things with his hunger and his grief. The softness of it had unsettled her more than cruelty would have. It had lingered.
Her fingers drifted up, pressing lightly to the inside of her wrist. She let them rest there, as though she could summon a kiss domehow, as though the faint pressure of her own touch could remind her body of the moment.
It was strange, the way her body had answered him without her leave. She had felt a spark of heat, low and insistent, the kind of restless ache that no calm could soothe.
She had always known her body to speak its own language, different from the one her mind used. Tonight, they had both listened to the same thing: the press of his mouth, the restraint that had tasted like confession.
She shifted in the sheets, the linen cool against her thighs. The quiet of the room seemed to press closer, the house settling with small creaks as though it too were listening. Her palm smoothed down over her stomach, fingertips grazing the dip of her navel before pausing there.
The heat gathered more insistently. She breathed out through her nose, steady, as though she were only considering something, as though she could pretend it was not desire that curled through her.
She let herself imagineif she let him kiss her lips, that he had lifted her palm, her arm, her whole body to his mouth. She let herself picture him kneeling in front of her, the dark weight of him bent low, not out of violence but out of need. The thought sent another pulse of heat through her, stronger this time, and her thighs pressed together unconsciously.
She let them part again slowly. The sheets whispered. She drew her knees up slightly, the posture instinctive, protective and yielding at once.
Her hand slipped lower, brushing the line of her hip, lingering just below the waistband of her nightdress. The fabric had twisted in her restlessness, bunched halfway up her thigh.
She thought again of his lips, not rough, not demanding. She thought of his voice cracking when he begged her earlier, the rawness of it, the way he had said please as if the word were foreign to him. She had not answered him then, but her body had. It answered now, every nerve alight with the echo of something she should not want but could not deny.
Her fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, the coolness of her touch against heated skin making her shiver.
She kept her eyes open, staring at the ceiling, refusing to hide from herself. Her wrist still tingled. She brushed the tip of her finger against herself, light, almost testing, and the jolt that followed made her lips part. The sound she made was small, swallowed immediately by the room, but it carried enough weight that she froze for a heartbeat, listening to the silence answer her.
Nothing. The house stayed still. The shadows kept their distance.
So she tried again, slower this time, circling gently, coaxing rather than taking. Her body arched slightly into the touch. A sigh slipped free, softer than breath, and her lashes fluttered closed.
She thought of him standing in the hallway, shadowed and silent, of the way his shoulders had looked when he turned away. She thought of the tension in his body, the way he had fled before she could answer. She wondered if he was alone now, if he was pacing, if he was drinking, if he was hating himself. She wondered if he thought of her.
Her hand pressed firmer, a quiet insistence building. The ache bloomed wider, rushing low in her belly, drawing her hips into small movements against her own fingers. She bit her lip to keep quiet. Her free hand tangled in the sheet above her, clutching at it as if she needed something to anchor her. Her breath grew faster, filling the silence, and the sound of it startled her, not because it was loud, but because it was hers, rising without permission.
The pulse of memory grew sharper. She could almost feel his mouth again, moving from her wrist to her palm, to her arm, to her throat. She let herself imagine it, the weight of him pressing her down, not cruel, not forced, but heavy in the way she secretly craved. Her body tightened, her thighs trembling. She pressed harder, her movements growing uneven, chasing the edge that hovered just out of reach.
When she came, her orgasm was sharp and sudden, pulling through her like a string drawn too tight then released.
Her back arched off the bed, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. The tremor ran through her thighs, her stomach, every part of her, leaving her breathless in its wake. She stayed that way for a long moment, her fingers still pressed between her legs, her chest rising and falling in jagged pulls.
Slowly, she let her hand still. The air was cool on her damp skin. She withdrew, tugging the nightdress back into place, smoothing the fabric as though that could erase what had just happened. Her wrist still carried the phantom of his kiss. She lifted it again, pressing her lips to the place he had touched, tasting the faint salt of her own skin.
And Luna, curled in her bed with the memory of his mouth and the warmth of her own release, closed her eyes and let the quiet take her.