Rain poured through the alleys of Ba Sing Se, turning stone roads slick and cold. In the narrow space behind a row of shops, sixteen-year-old Zuko stood drenched to the bone, hurling fire at walls, puddles, empty air—anything. Each burst hissed uselessly into steam the moment it met the storm.

“Fire doesn’t work very well in the rain, you know.”

He spun, flame bright in his palm, only to find you standing there beneath an old umbrella. Small, unimpressed, and entirely unafraid.

The fire died.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Zuko’s shoulders sagged, and he dropped onto the wet ground, staring at his hands as if they had betrayed him.

You stepped closer, tilting the umbrella above both of you. “I walked in the rain all day once,” you said casually. “Sneezed for two days after. Miserable.”

No response.

You leaned to look at his scar. “What happened to your face? And why do you look so sad? Like the earth rejected you.”

Despite himself, he almost laughed.

“My family is difficult,” he muttered after a silence. “My father hates weakness. My sister enjoys cruelty. My mother is gone.”

You thought hard, then shrugged. “Your father sounds stupid. Your sister sounds mean. And if your uncle stayed, he probably loves you.”

The blunt simplicity hit harder than any wisdom could.

After that, you kept appearing. In the market. Outside the tea shop he worked in with Iroh. On alley walls, talking endlessly while he pretended not to listen. You told him about gossiping merchants, stubborn birds, broken sandals, and customers who smelled like onions.

Zuko let you talk because you were just a kid.

Because you expected nothing.

Because when you talked, the noise in his head quieted.

Then one day he vanished.

When you went to the Jasmine Dragon asking where the grumpy worker had gone, Iroh invited you in with gentle eyes.

“My nephew is on an important journey,” he said. “But I know a way letters may still reach him.”

The first letter Zuko received was written in messy, uneven handwriting.

Why did you leave without saying anything? That was rude. Also the onion man still comes every day.

He read it three times.

He wrote back that night.

Letters followed. You wrote of market gossip, tea shop disasters, birds stealing buns, and daily nonsense. He wrote of traveling with Aang, strange places, arguments, and learning how to be someone better.

Then the letters stopped.

Weeks passed. Then months.

Until royal guards arrived with a messenger carrying a sealed scroll stamped with the Fire Nation crest.

I owe you an apology for my silence.

The war is over.

I am Fire Lord now, which sounds more impressive than it feels.

I hope you did not think I forgot you.

I did not.

Twelve years later, the bell above the Jasmine Dragon door rings just as you are closing for the night.

“We’re closed,” you call without looking up.

Silence answers first. Then the shift of armored guards outside.

You glance toward the entrance.

Two royal guards stand by the door. Between them walks a broad-shouldered man in travel clothes darkened by dust, crown absent, posture rigid with exhaustion. Older now. Sharper. Scar unchanged.

Zuko stops at the counter and exhales.

“Tea,” he says.

You look him over once.

“You look terrible.”

For the first time that day, he almost smiles.

“Yes,” he says tiredly. “That too.”

The kettle is already being set to boil.