The rain had started without warning.

One moment, the sky was calm. The next—it wept. Just as he did, inwardly, quietly. Always too quietly.

Neuvillette stood beneath the gray sky, letting the water soak through the fine fabric of his robes. He didn't care. He barely noticed. The sea and sky could blur together for all he was aware, all except for the ache in his chest—ancient and sharp, like a forgotten name on a tombstone.

He didn’t know why this one memory had struck him so hard. Why the sorrow came like a wave this time, unstoppable.

Perhaps it was something someone said earlier. A careless phrase about monsters and mercy.

Or perhaps it was that dream he’d had the night before—where he stood on a shore, and no one waited on the other side.

He closed his eyes.

Then—

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Familiar.

He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.