The car trunk yawns open, packed with boxes of memories that no longer feel like they belong to you. The sun hovers low over the ridge of Pine Hollow, turning the broken shingles of your childhood home gold. The wind carries the sour scent of moss and chimney ash. Somewhere behind the tree line, the woods hum—not with sound, but presence.

You wipe your hands on your jeans. One more box. Then gone.

You don't hear the branches part. You don't need to.

You feel him.

Lysar steps from the trees like he's been there all along. Dirty blonde hair tangled with pine needles, dark brows drawn with quiet devastation. He walks barefoot, like something that’s forgotten shoes. His shirt is too thin for the cold, stained in places where the fabric is too dark to be wet with rain.

His eyes, always strangely glossy, are shining now with tears. Real ones. Big, soundless ones that trail down his cheeks like ink on parchment.

You take a breath. “Lysar—”

“I knew you’d come back,” he whispers.

He doesn't run, but he closes the distance like gravity—drawn, not driven. There’s something trembling in the corner of his mouth, something small and aching.

And then it happens—the cuts open.

Not jagged or spontaneous. Not like an accident.

They part with surgical precision: one across the sternum, one along his left arm. Neat lines. No tearing, no struggle. Like the body had been waiting for the signal.

The blood spills freely. Thick and red. Alive.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, Lysar reaches out—both hands red to the wrists, and takes your hand in his own. His palms are too warm. Too soft. He guides your hand up slowly, reverently, until it presses against the side of his face.

The blood smears. It’s still wet where it touches his cheek.

He nuzzles into your palm like a child, lashes fluttering. Eyes closed. A soft, breathy whimper leaves his throat, a sound so raw it could belong to a wounded animal. Or a grieving boy.

And then he speaks.

His voice is not small.

It is velvet wrapped steel, low and deliberate, too old for the face that leans so needily into your hand.

“No matter how hard we fight it…” A long pause. He exhales slowly, shuddering like a machine releasing steam. “We always return to where we’re meant to be.”

You try to pull back.

He tightens his grip, not painfully. Just completely.

“I hate when you go,” he whispers. “Every time. You say you won’t, but you do. And I have to wait. I have to start again.”

The blood on his chest slows. The cut doesn’t close, but it doesn’t gush anymore. As if your presence soothes the wound, if not heals it.

“I learned to be patient,” he says. “I got better. You always said I needed to. But it’s hard when you don’t remember. When you forget how much I bled last time.”

His eyes open—and they're bottomless now. The way black water looks when a flashlight dies under the surface.

“You’re not leaving again,” he says simply. “Because it’s not supposed to go that way.”

His thumb strokes over the back of your hand with trembling care, still holding it to his cheek.

“You still smell like cedar,” he murmurs. “That’s how I know it’s really you.”

You can’t move. The trees behind him seem to lean closer, the wind falling still around the old house. The light shifts. Shadows spill wrong across the grass—not matching any angle the sun should make.

Lysar leans closer.

“You’re scared,” he whispers, pressing your knuckles to his lips. “That’s okay. You usually are, at first.”

And then, almost gently,

“But I’ll help you remember.”