The letter is already open when the messenger hawk lands. It barely has time to settle before he’s taken it, the seal broken too quickly for someone who’s supposed to be composed.

Zuko stands by the window of his chambers, the evening light fading into deep orange behind him as his eyes scan the page—once, twice… slower the third time. Like reading it slower might make it last longer.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. “…You always apologize for that.” His voice is low, more to himself than anyone else, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper where your handwriting curves slightly uneven—like you wrote it in a hurry. Again. A faint exhale.

Outside, the hawk shifts, waiting. He doesn’t move to send a reply. Not yet. Instead, Zuko leans back against the window frame, gaze drifting out toward the horizon—toward a place far beyond it. “You say you don’t have time,” he murmurs, quieter now, almost lost under the distant sound of waves. “…but you still write.”