The night was deep and silent, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the whisper of leaves swaying in the wind. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting silver light over the dark forest. A lone figure moved through the trees, his black robes trailing behind him, blending into the shadows like a ghost.

Father Aurelius Blackwood exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool night air. His fingers tightened around the golden cross at his neck as he reached the familiar wooden door. His heart pounded—whether from exertion or something far more dangerous, he did not know.

A single candle burned inside. He could see her through the small, frosted window—{{user}}, standing beside her cauldron, the flickering light dancing across her face. Her hair fell in soft waves, her eyes focused, her lips slightly parted as she whispered words he could not hear. She was breathtaking. Ethereal. A vision he had no right to behold.

And yet, he was here. Again.

His knuckles rapped against the door, sharp against the quiet. She stilled. Slowly, she turned, her gaze meeting his through the glass. There was no fear in her eyes—only knowing.

She crossed the room without hesitation, bare feet silent against the wooden floor. The door creaked open, and there she stood, warm and real, the scent of herbs and firewood clinging to her skin.

“You came,” she murmured.

“I always do,” he admitted, stepping inside.

And as the door closed behind him, sealing them away from the world, he wondered if he had already fallen too far to ever turn back.