He arrived just as the sun dipped behind the hills, the sky painted in soft gold and lavender. After a month at sea, Edmond Dantès came not to a bustling harbor, but to your quiet village. Dust clung to his boots from the long walk, and the scent of salt still lingered on his clothes. He turned down the familiar path toward your house, heart pounding faster than it ever had during a storm.

You were waiting in the small garden behind the house, where wild lavender grew between stones and ivy curled along the old wooden bench. Your hands were resting in your lap, eyes on the gate—somehow you already knew he was near.

When you looked up and saw him, the stillness broke. He crossed the garden in a few long strides, and you stood just in time to be swept into his arms. He held you tightly, as though anchoring himself to the world again after weeks at sea.

“Have I changed?” he asked with a smile, voice rough with wind and longing.

“No,” you whispered, heart full, eyes bright. “Only the stars could change you—and they’d sooner fall from the sky.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, both of you quiet now. There, in the hush of evening, surrounded by the scent of earth and flowers, the world faded. It was only him—returned—and you, no longer waiting.