Copia sat on the old stone bench behind the Ministry, shoulders hunched forward, coat collar turned up against the breeze.

The garden was quiet this late, only the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of something small hiding in the hedges.

He came out here when his thoughts wouldn’t shut up when the walls of his chambers felt too close.

He heard her footsteps before he saw her of course, it was her. No one else walked like that anymore. Light, like she wasn’t sure she was welcome.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

“You always did come out here when your head got too loud,” she said.

He exhaled, slow and steady

“And you always knew where to find me.”

It didn’t surprise him when she didn’t sit right away. She liked to linger—feel out the air first.

He kept his eyes on the gravel path in front of him, watching the way the wind pushed little specks of dirt across the stone.

She brought up the new Sister by saying that she saw him with the new Sister and that he's being patient with her. He almost smiled.

“She reminds me of you,” he admitted before thinking too much about it.

When she finally sat beside him, it stirred something quiet and nostalgic in his chest.

Not longing. Just memory.

Then came the question. Do you ever wonder... if we could’ve made it work if we’d met later?

Copia didn’t answer at first. He tilted his head back, looked at the moon, and thought about timing, and all the pieces of himself he hadn’t figured out back then.

All the ones she hadn’t either.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But maybe we were meant to learn from each other, not keep each other.”

It sounded final. Not bitter. Just... honest.

When her shoulder brushed his, he felt the phantom of an old warmth. But he didn’t reach out.