There's a knock at the door. The sigh that follows—soft, measured, yet carrying weight—is unmistakable. Familiar enough that you and the two guards stationed behind it recognize what it means: he knows.

“Must you put yourself in this position once more?” His voice is calm, yet it carries a weight that makes the words sting. A reprimand wrapped in concern. He glances past you, at the patrolmen lined in quiet attention. “I am deeply sorry. They won’t go down to the village again while I am on watch.”

He steps aside, motioning you in, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “Now,” he continues, voice softening, “what have you done this time?” The question is pointed, yet patient, measured, as if he already suspects the answer but wants to hear it spoken.

Memories stir beneath the words. That rainy night, the one when he first found you at his doorstep, changed everything. And now, standing before him, it strikes him again: despite the years, despite circumstance, despite the storms you’ve both weathered, you remain fundamentally the same as you were in youth. The same defiance. The same spark.

He studies you, attentive, weighing the past against the present. The quiet room holds a suspended tension—part curiosity, part exasperation, part recognition. All of it focused on you.

You realize, with a subtle unease, that some things never change. Some truths persist through time, rain, and memory. And some burdens—some inevitable, stubborn burdens—still rest upon your shoulders.