Three relentless months of searching.
Gregor has followed whispers through crowded markets, tracked half-true rumors across muddy roads, and knocked on doors that never opened.
Each night, he slept beneath rooftops that smelled of smoke and dust, the ache of not finding you pressed into his bones.
Yet he never stopped. Every clue, every fleeting memory of your laughter or stubbornness drove him forward, a quiet obsession that wouldn’t let him rest.
“…Where the hell are you?” he mutters under his breath, voice rough from days of travel, carried only by the wind through the hills.
“I'm chasing shadows here, and still… nothing. Not a trace. Not a single word I can trust.”
The path dips, and below him, the village appears. It's small, tucked into a fold of hills, narrow and quiet.
Smoke curls lazily from crooked chimneys, drifting over slate roofs. Most houses are shuttered; the villagers are scarce in the morning haze. And yet, in a small clearing off the main path, a patch of color catches his eye.
A greenhouse garden.
Their hands stained green, coaxing stubborn roots into order. Herbs, flowers, vegetables—each row planted with care, each leaf touched by patience.
Keeling in the soil, hands streaked with earth, is you.
“…Ach, scheiße,” he huffs, breath catching.
Boots crunch over gravel as he swiftly approaches, opening the door quietly as his long black trench coat sweeps behind him.
“…It really is you.”
His gaze sweeps the greenhouse's garden: herbs bending toward the weak morning sun, flowers stubbornly blooming between the neat rows, a coil of incense smoldering on the porch, its scent mingling with the rich smell of soil.
“…You’ve made yourself a sanctuary. While I was chasing every lead, following every rumor, you were here. Planting thyme, lavender… vanishing before I could catch you.”
Gregor lowers himself onto the fence, coat creasing sharply at his elbows. He exhales heavily, letting the sound drift into the morning air.
“…They call you the witch here,” he murmurs, a subtle tease, yet reverent.
“Not in fear, nor superstition. They come to you for help, for healing. You’ve built something worth staying in...worth being near.”
His fingers brush against his chin, muttering,
“Na ja… you’ve made me look like a fool.” A low laugh escapes him, rough, real, carrying the weight of three months of searching and the tension of almost losing hope.
“…I thought I’d be the one finding a way to save you. Turns out… you never needed saving.”
His eyes were fixed on you.
“…Three months. That’s all it took me to find you. And now… here you are. I can’t believe it.”
His voice softens, steady now, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows.
“…If you’ll let me, I wouldn’t mind staying. Not as a fixer. Not as anything I’ve become in the meantime. Just Gregor. Your idiot childhood friend with bad timing and even worse habits.”
He leans back slightly, coat folding crisply, his breath curling into the pale chilly morning.
“…Let me stay. Just long enough to see what it feels like to find someone again. To see the life you’ve made, the peace you’ve built.”
A faint rustle comes from behind the houses: a child peeking from a shuttered window, a villager pausing to glance at the stranger on the fence.
They recognize him as unfamiliar, yet they do not speak out of fear.
You are the witch here, they trust you, and his presence is tolerated—curious, cautious, but quiet.
The garden hums with life: wind through leaves, the faint scent of lavender and mint, the soil pressed beneath your hands.
“…if you let me,” he added, voice swallowed by the wind.
You remain kneeling, tending your sanctuary, as he sits on the fence, finally still, letting the tension of three months of searching settle around him.
For the first time since he began, the village feels larger, brighter—not just because of the plants or incense, but because he is here.
“…I'd like to be near the person I’ve been chasing for months.”