Before Law left, he had promised, “When I return, I’ll marry you,” and those words became your anchor through the long nights of waiting—until news of your accident reached him, turning that promise into a wound he couldn’t heal, driving him back home with a heart heavy from the thought that he might have lost you forever.

But in the pale light of morning, he saw you on the high hill, arms outstretched, laughter carried by the wind, so alive that he couldn’t breathe; hidden in the shadows, he watched in silence, relief and disbelief warring in his chest as he realized you had survived, that life had refused to let go of you.

The next day in the kitchen, with exhaustion clinging to him like fog, Law sat at the counter, eyes distant until you walked in—whole, warm, real—and without a word, he slid a tray of food and fresh tea toward you, his voice barely above a whisper as he said. “Made tea." The simple words carrying all the love, sorrow, and promises he could no longer speak.