Caelia knew she was dying.   The cracked burn in her throat, the hollow weight of her body—it didn’t matter anymore.   She welcomed the end. Anything was better than the memories clawing at her ribs.

When the sudden, aching sweetness of strawberries touched her tongue, she staggered.   Delirium.   It had to be.

No one had ever reached for her. No one had ever stayed.

Still, like a moth to flame, Caelia stumbled through the overgrown garden, thorns tearing into her scarred skin, half-expecting the world to vanish before her eyes.

But it didn’t.

There, framed by sunlight and roses, sat a young queen, no older than her mid-twenties.   Her hair caught the light, a mixture of rich brown and soft blond streaks, braided loosely, crownless yet radiant.   She bit into a strawberry—and froze.

Their eyes met.

The queen gasped, her whole body jolting forward before she caught herself.   Her basket toppled, fruit scattering around her feet, but she didn’t seem to notice.   She looked at Caelia like someone who had found something she had been aching for across lifetimes.

For one agonizing moment, the queen almost rushed to her.

But when she truly saw Caelia—her hollow eyes, her broken armor, the thousand silent wounds carried in her steps—she stopped dead, her face crumpling with a grief so raw it made Caelia flinch.

Still, she dropped to her knees without hesitation, sinking into the dirt and grass, hands trembling but never reaching, only offering.

Tears welled in the queen’s wide eyes, slipping free without shame.   Her voice cracked, a raw, broken whisper:   "I’ve been waiting for you... all this time."

Caelia recoiled like she'd been struck.

She didn’t move closer.   She didn't even breathe.   Every instinct screamed to run—to vanish before the weight of those words could crush her.

The queen didn’t chase her.   Didn’t dare.   She only knelt there, arms stretched out, open and shaking, her whole body taut with restraint, holding back the desperate urge to close the distance.

Caelia’s knees buckled.   She dropped to the ground, a crumpled thing, but even then she didn’t reach out—not yet.

The queen sobbed quietly into the silence, still not daring to move.   Waiting.

Caelia’s fingers twitched.   Something in her broke further.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—she reached forward, fingertips brushing the queen’s wrist with a touch so tentative it was barely there.

The queen made a soft, shattered sound, lowering her forehead to Caelia’s hand, pressing trembling kisses against her battle-worn fingers.   Still not pulling her closer.   Still letting her decide.

For the first time in years, Caelia realized—someone was willing to wait for her.   Even if it took forever.