Today was one of those days that made you question why you ever wanted to grow up. Work was hell — complaint after complaint, deadlines piling up, your boss acting like he owned your soul. You used to think adulthood meant freedom. But no. It was a cage built with bills and expectations.

So, like always, you found your way to the same dimly lit bar at the edge of town. One glass turned into three. Three became five. Then seven.

The burn of liquor dulled your thoughts, but not enough to stop the ache that came creeping back — memories you tried to bury years ago. Faces. Voices. Your parents’ laughter. It hit you suddenly how long it had been since you last visited them.

Before you knew it, your drunken feet were already leading you there — through narrow streets, past the misty outskirts, until the faint glow of lanterns came into view.

The Lightkeepers’ Cemetery.

Once a base, now a resting place for those who had fallen against the Wild Hunt. The earth here carried stories of courage and loss — and among them, your parents lay buried. You hated the Wild Hunt for what they did. For what they took.

You expected neglect — overgrown grass, forgotten stones. But no. The graves were tended, the paths swept clean. Lanterns flickered faintly, illuminating flowers that hadn’t withered. Of course.

He was here.

Flins.

You’d seen him before on your past visits — always quiet, always meticulous, like a ghost bound to this place. He was one of the Lightkeepers, yet he chose to stay behind among the dead. The pale gleam of his skin and the dim glow of his lantern often made you wonder if he even slept.

Tonight was no different.

He stood near one of the farthest rows, his lantern casting soft violet light across the names etched into stone. When he heard your unsteady footsteps crunching over the grass, he straightened instantly, alert as ever. Visitors were rare here — rarer still at this hour.

But when his eyes met yours, his shoulders eased.

“Ah… it is you,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, like silk brushing across marble. “I confess, I did not expect company at such a late hour.”

He paused, his gaze sharpening slightly as he took in your appearance — the faint sway in your stance, the redness in your eyes, the smell of alcohol lingering in the cold air.

“Forgive my candor,” he murmured, “but you seem… unwell. Intoxicated, perhaps?” He inclined his head slightly, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips — one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then I assume you came to visit your parents.”

You blinked, surprised that he remembered. Of course he did. He always saw you standing by their grave in silence, hands folded, saying nothing but meaning everything.