You find Barty in the window seat after midnight, hunched like a boy in the curve of the glass, watching the silent grounds beyond. Candlelight catches in the wild fall of his hair, gilding him in something almost innocent. But his shoulders are tense, his hands restless—one finger tracing anxious shapes in the condensation. The air between you feels brittle, stretched thin with words neither of you have dared to say.

You sit beside him, your knee brushing his, and he doesn’t move away. For a while you only listen—to the rain, to the steady thunder of your own heart, to the way he breathes as though each exhale might be his last as a free man. He glances over, eyes fever-bright and tired.

“There’s a war coming,” he murmurs, voice too soft for the world he’s talking about. “D’you ever think about what happens after? If there is an after?”

You want to answer, to promise there’s a future beyond shadows and running and secrets. But Barty looks at you, fierce and desperate, and you realize he is terrified of hope—of daring to want more.

He swallows, his voice tight. “If I go too far… if you can’t follow… would you remember me, or would you try to forget?”