The forest breathes around me, the silence deepening as my guards march in quiet formation, Legolas at my side. My elk halts, ears twitching, for I have already caught it — a trace of fragrance drifting on the air.

Lavender. Rose water.

My chest seizes. That scent belongs to memory, to loss, to the woman I consigned to Mandos long ago. Impossible — and yet it clings here, sharp as the ache in my bones.

I whisper before thought can still me. “No… it cannot be…”

“Father?” Legolas’ voice cuts the hush. He reins in beside me, concern plain. “Why do you stop? What is it? Are you unwell?”

I do not answer at once. My hand tightens on the reins, eyes searching the darkness between the trees as though she might step forth. But the shadows hold only silence. Still, the scent lingers, tormenting me with a hope I should not dare.

“Nothing,” I say at last, though the word is hollow. Legolas studies me, troubled, but I turn away from his gaze. Within, grief and disbelief war against a truth my heart already knows: the dead should not return. And yet… the forest whispers otherwise.