It had been years since anyone had seen Regulus. No body. No grave. Just whispers in the dark and rumors that he’d died for something no one quite understood.

But the truth was simpler: he ran. Left everything behind—his family, his past, you.

He hadn’t planned on staying alive. Not really. But somehow, he did. Wandering from place to place, changing names, shrinking into smaller and smaller versions of himself.

He thought he was fine with that. Until that morning in the market.

The town was quiet, tucked away in the countryside, the kind of place no one would ever look for a Black heir turned traitor. He was browsing lazily—half-awake, fingers brushing the tops of overripe tomatoes—when he heard it.

Your laugh.

He froze.

There you were, across the square, radiant in a way he didn’t remember and could never forget. Wind catching your hair. Smiling so easily.

And beside you was a child. A little boy, no older than five, clutching your skirt with one hand and a wooden toy wand in the other.

Regulus’s breath caught in his throat.

Then you felt it. Like a prickle on the back of your neck. Like being watched by something you couldn’t name.

You turned.

And there—between a butcher’s stall and a stack of pumpkins—you saw him.

Just for a second. A flicker of a face you’d memorized long ago. A man in a worn cloak, hood low over his head, dark hair tousled by the wind. His somber eyes locked on yours—and it was him. Older, a bit thinner, but unmistakably him.

Regulus.

Your breath caught. Your heart lurched.

But by the time you blinked—he was gone. Vanished into the crowd like smoke.

You stood frozen, hands trembling around the apples you no longer remembered picking.

Your son tugged on your sleeve, his voice small. “Mum?”