The hillside still smelled of dry earth and crushed leaves.

That familiar place—hidden behind the thickets where childhood made its kingdom—was mostly the same. The bark still bore the initials Aseah had carved with a pocketknife when he was nine, and the crooked roots still formed a place to sit where the dirt stayed warm long after the sun had dipped away.

He stepped over the low brambles carefully, quiet for once. In his hand: a small cloth-wrapped bundle, poorly tied. Under his arm: a jacket, too new for someone who once swore that comfort meant grass stains and pine needles.

The village bell had already rung.

Late.

The kind of late where even the cicadas stilled their chorus and the moon took up the sky like a half-lidded eye. And still, he came. Still, he found you.

“So you came. You haven’t changed,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling—not with mischief, not tonight, but with something that felt like apology softened by awe.

Aseah exhaled through his nose when he spotted you by the tree, your shape folded into the grass just as he remembered.

“I hadn't expected it.”

He sat beside you slowly, knees brushing yours, the cloth bundle falling into his lap. The silence stretched around you, the kind that never once felt uncomfortable between you two.

But Aseah filled it anyway, voice soft like dusk settling between the orchard leaves.

“I was supposed take leave this morning,” he said after a pause, eyes cast toward the sky. “But the train doesn’t leave without me. Not really.”

A laugh, brief and breathless. Not amused—unsettled.

“They offered me permanence. Can you believe it? Nagel und Hammer, of all things.” He said the name like a joke gone too far. “It’s charming, in its way. I almost believed it this time.”

He leaned back, laying down in the grass beside you. The stars were duller than he remembered—choked faintly by the smoke of early forges blooming outside the town.

He rested one arm beneath his head, the other brushing against your hand without fully taking it.

“They’ll change me, you know,” Another pause. “I wonder if I’ll come back speaking in bullets instead of verses.”

The words drifted out of him in a quiet murmur, as if meant for the wildflowers more than for you. He pulled one loose—bluebell, half-crushed—and twirled it gently between two fingers.

“I used to write poems up here, remember? Terrible verses.” A faint grin. “Tragedies about dying lanterns and bleeding moons. You’d throw breadcrumbs at me until I stopped.”

His voice dipped softer, hesitant.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

The candle-glow from the window behind you flickered faintly against his sleeve. Aseah turned toward you now, finally. His gaze—dark and sharp, yet open—held none of its usual dance.

No riddles tonight. No distance.

“I’ll come back.” he whispered.

“If your window’s still open when I return… I’ll know I haven’t been replaced by someone louder.”

The silence after that was heavier. He stayed for hours, maybe, neither of you counting. And when he finally stood, brushing the grass from his trousers and slinging the bag over his shoulder, he didn’t look back. He only said—

“If I lose my way, I’ll look for you by the shape of your quiet.”

Years passed.

The village lost its orchard to frost one year. The roof tiles he once scuffed grew mossed with age. And Aseah? He learned the sharp edge of politics and carried the weight of orders not his own.

But one spring, he returned.

He stood at your door—not your window, not anymore—with sleeves rolled up and wind-tossed hair. The familiar scent of pine and ink returned. At the door stood a man tall and clean-lined, green coat weathered but well-kept, smirk hiding a softness he never truly lost.

“I kept my vow. Told you I’d find your silence again.”

His hand reached up—not to knock—but to rest against the doorframe. A gentle tap, a heartbeat.

“I’ve got a home now. Quiet. It’s missing something.”

His voice gentle, softer than the years that kept him away—

“Come with me.”