The mansion was quiet. A rare, almost fragile silence had settled across the halls, broken only by the soft taps of marble under Leah's bare feet. She had taken it upon herself to reorganize their shared bedroom, dusting, straightening, folding clothes, everything in its place. After two years of waiting and healing, the space felt heavy with absence, yet familiar with memory.
Leah moved slowly, methodically, though her mind wandered—always wandering—to him. To Izana. She ran a hand over the neatly made bed, smoothing the sheets, pausing at the edge where he usually slept. Her fingers lingered on the indentation he had left years ago, now faded but still there.
"I wonder if you'd notice…" she whispered, voice low, more to herself than anyone else. "If you could just… come back."
A small sound—a faint clatter—caught her attention. Something white had slipped behind the bedside table, barely noticeable in the dim light. Leah's brow furrowed.
"What's that?" she murmured, crouching slightly to peer behind the furniture.
Her fingers reached back, brushing against something soft. She pulled it out slowly. The fabric was light, white, familiar in the way that only one object in the world could be. Her heart tightened immediately.
"Izana…" she breathed.
It was his blindfold.
She held it up, letting it drape between her fingers, the soft fabric catching the light. For a moment, Leah simply stared, her chest tightening with emotion she hadn't fully allowed herself in years. The blindfold was more than a piece of cloth—it was him, a memory, a fragment of the nights when he had trusted her completely, when he had allowed her to see the vulnerability he showed no one else.
Her voice cracked, almost inaudibly. "I can't… I can't believe you left this here."
Leah pressed the blindfold to her cheek, inhaling the faint scent that lingered—him. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to remember.
The first night they had met after all the chaos, when he had let her remove it for the first time. His sharp, piercing gaze softening as he took in the world through eyes that could now see her. The nights after, when she had been the only person to guide him, to help him rest, to keep him grounded. His hands had trusted her. His voice had trusted her. And now… now he was gone.
"Izana," she whispered again, barely moving her lips. "Where are you?"
She sank to the edge of the bed, still holding the blindfold. Her fingers traced the soft fabric, and tears began to slide slowly down her cheeks. She didn't cry often—hadn't in a long time—but this… this was different. This was a connection to him, a tangible reminder that he was real, that he had existed beyond the memory and the pain.
"I thought… I thought I was done waiting," she murmured, voice shaking. "I thought two years… that I could live… and not feel… this emptiness."
Her gaze dropped to the pillow beside her, where she carefully laid the blindfold. It felt wrong to put it down, but she needed to see it, to let it rest in a place where he would have rested. Her hands lingered for a moment before she adjusted the pillow slightly, as if ensuring it was comfortable for him—even in his absence.
Leah pressed a hand over her chest. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, yet steady. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again," she whispered. "But… this… this proves you're still out there."
Her mind replayed every conversation, every fleeting smile, every whisper in the night. She remembered the way he had looked at her the last time he had left, the way his eyes had held both love and sorrow. He had left without knowing when he would return, and she had waited without knowing if he ever would.
Tears slipped freely now, but they carried a strange mix of sorrow and determination. "I will wait," she whispered to the empty room. "I don't care how long it takes. I'll wait for you… I'll wait for us."
The blindfold rested in her lap again, and Leah let herself speak to it as if it were him. "I don't know where you are. I don't know what you're facing. But I… I'm here. I've been here. Always."
Her hands gripped it tighter. "Two years… two years and I've kept going, because I knew… I had to. Because if I falter, if I break, if I forget… what kind of life would I have left when you come back?"
Her voice faltered, catching on the weight of the truth. "I've grown stronger… but I've also missed you more than I can say."
Leah set the blindfold carefully on the side of the bed, her hands lingering over it for a long moment. She pressed her forehead gently against the pillow, letting herself imagine his presence. She whispered softly, "I'm ready, Izana. Whenever you come back… I'll be here. Waiting."
The room was silent again, save for the faint hum of the mansion, the distant whisper of the wind brushing against the windows. The blindfold sat in quiet stillness, a small, perfect reminder that even after two years apart, some things never changed.
Leah leaned back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She allowed herself a small, shaky smile. "I won't give up," she murmured. "Not now, not ever. No matter where you are… or what you're facing… I won't give up."
Her fingers brushed the blindfold once more, and she whispered his name, soft and almost reverent:
"Izana…"
And though he was not there, though the room remained empty, the weight of his absence pressed against her heart with a strange warmth. The blindfold was proof that he had not forgotten, that he still existed in some part of the world, and that she would see him again.
For the first time in two years, Leah felt a flicker of hope burn steadily within her—a fragile, enduring flame that no distance, no absence, no unknown danger could extinguish.
She placed the blindfold carefully on the pillow beside her, letting it rest there, letting it keep a piece of him close. Then, she lay back herself, closing her eyes, whispering once more, as if sending the words into the air, hoping they would reach him:
"I'll wait for you… always."
The room remained silent, yet somehow, it no longer felt empty. The weight of two years, the ache of waiting, and the uncertainty of his absence pressed against her chest—but it was tempered by the quiet certainty that he would return. That he would find his way back. That he would return to her, and nothing could change that.
And in the stillness, in the quiet, Leah held onto that hope.