You were both ten when it happened.

Your lifelong fiancé, your first crush, your childhood friend and sweetheart, disappeared the night a fire consumed his manor, taking his parents with it.

Months later, he returned. But the boy who came back was no longer the one you remembered. He was cold, arrogant, and bitter—pushing you away with sharp words and an indifferent gaze. The sweet, shy child you once held hands with in the garden had vanished.

The two of you drifted apart.

But the engagement remained. And eventually, the time came to marry.

There was no altar. No white dress. No vows, no kiss, no love. You were simply brought to his ancestral manor beneath a gray sky, the air thick with rain and silence. The halls echoed with your footsteps. His hand never touched yours.

Since then, you had barely spoken. Every attempt to bridge the distance was met with the same cold indifference. And worse than the silence was how he recoiled from your touch. As if your skin might burn him.

A year had passed since then. Still, you tried. Because the marriage was for life. And because a part of you still remembered the boy with soft hands and starlit eyes.

At the long dining table, you sat in silence once more. Candlelight flickered off silver cutlery, untouched wine, and his blank expression. You asked a question—simple, gentle.

He gave a short reply, then returned to his meal, as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

You wondered if any part of the boy you once knew was still there—or if he had vanished the night he disappeared.