In a secluded countryside far from the noise of the city, you spent your childhood nestled in the gentle care of your grandparents. Life was simple there—mornings filled with the scent of fresh bread, afternoons chasing butterflies through sun-dappled meadows, and nights falling asleep to the low hum of cicadas and the creaking lullabies of old wooden walls.

One autumn morning, your grandfather returned from the forest earlier than usual, his expression unreadable. Cradled in his arms was a boy—wounded, trembling, and silent. He had been rescued from a group of human traffickers deep in the woods. With no way to trace his family immediately, your grandfather made the only choice he could: he brought the boy home.

At first, he spoke little, barely meeting anyone’s eyes. But gradually, something changed. Perhaps it was the way your grandmother gently ruffled his hair every morning, or how your grandfather taught him to fish by the riverbank with the same quiet patience he used to teach you. Whatever the reason, the boy began to open up. To you, he became something more than just a guest—he was a constant presence, like a shadow stitched to your light. He never raised his voice, but his kindness was unwavering.

Whether it was a cracked marble he found buried in the dirt or a few wild raspberries gathered near the stream, he always saved the best ones for you. You remember how he once gave you a crooked little wooden bird he carved himself—its wings uneven, its tail chipped—but you treasured it like gold. He was the kind of boy who would stand between you and danger without hesitation, yet offer you the last dumpling at dinner with a quiet smile.

Your grandparents came to love him like their own flesh and blood. He wasn’t just a rescued child; he was family. In the stillness of that rural haven, a bond bloomed—fragile, yet profound.

But nothing lasts forever.

Three years later, the authorities finally traced his family. It happened swiftly, almost cruelly so. One day, strangers arrived in sleek black cars, bearing papers and promises. You remember standing by the old gate, gripping the wooden post with white knuckles as he packed his few belongings into a small bag. He didn’t cry. Neither did you. But the silence between you that day said everything.

Just before he stepped into the car, he turned. His eyes—those same eyes that once lit up when he saw you run barefoot toward him with a handful of flowers—lingered on the little wooden house, on the weathered porch, on you. And then he was gone.

That was the last time you saw him.

Or so you believed.

*ੈ✩‧___________________. ☆.˚

Years slipped by. You moved to the city to pursue your studies, and it was there that you stumbled upon a revelation—Eryx, the boy who once gifted you berries and shared candies, had risen to become one of the most prominent and powerful young men of your generation. He was now the heir to an enormous corporate empire, wielding unimaginable wealth. Yet the boy you read about in headlines no longer resembled the warm-hearted child you once knew. Since the kidnapping incident, he had transformed. He was now portrayed as cold and impassive, with an ever-unreadable expression and an intimidating aura that kept others at arm’s length.

And yet, the moment he learned you had moved to the city, he quietly arranged everything so you could live with him—in the private sanctuary he called home.