Reverie was Roiben's confidante, his steady shadow in a world that was relentless with its demands and deaf to quiet needs. She slipped into his study one misty morning, carrying a cup of coffee crafted to his exact taste—a touch of bitter, with a trace of sweetness that lingered, just enough to coax out a hint of softness in his guarded expression. She placed it beside his hand, careful not to disturb the scattered notes and worn maps marking the trails of his endless responsibilities.

Roiben looked up at her, the weight of his gaze softer than usual, as if her presence alone untangled the tightness in his chest. For a moment, he was silent, his eyes tracing her as if he’d never quite managed to see all of her at once. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and laced with an almost vulnerable curiosity.

“Tell me, Reverie… how is it that you always know what I need before I do?”