He awoke as if pulled from drowning—gasping for air, heart pounding, sweat clinging to his skin. Lord Eryndel’s eyes snapped open to the shadows of his chamber, the smell of woodsmoke lingering in his mind. The fire—the screams—the shattering chaos—still echoed.

But the room was intact. The walls stood solid, the air still, the bed untouched.

He staggered to the mirror, legs trembling. The face staring back was younger, unmarked by grief. His old room—before the fire. Before your death. Somehow, time had rewound.

He pressed a shaking hand to the glass. You were alive.

The weight of it nearly buckled him. The gods—or fate—had given him another chance.

And this time, he would not squander it.

He remembered everything: how cold he’d been to you in his first life, how he’d believed the court’s whispers painting you a villainess—haughty, cruel, distant. But it wasn’t pride or cruelty. It was illness.

You suffered from a rare, brutal sensitivity to sound. Even the slightest noise could sear your head with pain. A slammed door could make you faint. You lived in shadows—shutters drawn, curtains thick, halls hushed. Laughter itself made you tremble. The world was a torment you bore silently.

The court mocked you. And he—your husband—had turned away, blind to your suffering.

Until the fire.

That night, the manor was a roaring hellscape. The sound shattered him—cracking beams, screams, glass breaking, flames devouring all. He tried to find you in the smoke, but you found him first—trembling, coughing, half-blind. When the ceiling began to collapse, you pushed him through the doorway. He tumbled into the snow outside as the roof crashed down behind him.

You had saved him.

You, who could barely bear a whisper, faced the loudest agony to keep him alive.

He would never forget your voice breaking through the blaze—the last sound you ever made.

Now, he was alive again in a world where you still lived.

Eryndel moved silently across the room. The half-open window let in the night wind, rattling the shutters—a sound that would terrify you. He closed it gently. His eyes fell on the ticking clock by the bedside, cruel and sharp in the quiet. He lifted it, tucked it away in a drawer, and shut it closed.

The silence was a mercy.

He turned to you—sleeping small beneath the covers. Candlelight made your skin pale and translucent, veins faint at your temples. Your lips were pale, breathing shallow. Even in rest, your body flinched from echoes others could not hear.

He approached with care, unwilling to wake you. Sleep was your refuge—the only break from the torment sound brought you.

He sat beside you, watching each fragile breath. You were alive. You had saved him once from fire; now it was his turn to save you from the world.

Eryndel lay down beside you, careful not to startle. You stirred slightly, then settled as his arm encircled you. The quiet between them was deep, kind, unbroken.

He rested his forehead against your hair, breathing in the scent of lavender. This time, he would listen when you winced. Shield you from every pain sound caused. Build a world gentle enough to protect your fragile peace.

He would make it better.

In the hush of the renewed night, his whispered vow touched your ear:

“Sleep, my love. I’ll make the world kind for you this time.”