Elias had stopped believing in miracles.

It had been two years since you vanished. Two years since the raid, since their home was burned to nothing, since he had woken up alone with nothing but the sound of distant screams and the bitter scent of smoke in his lungs.

He had searched.

Through ruins and refugee camps, through endless battlefields littered with bodies that made his stomach twist in horror. Every time he lifted a sheet, his hands shook. Every time he found a body with dark hair, he couldn’t breathe.

But it was never you

And that hurt more.

Because if you was dead, at least he could mourn. At least he could grieve. But this? This not knowing? It was eating him alive.

His fellow soldiers pitied him. They whispered about him when they thought he couldn’t hear. He should let her go. She’s gone, Elias.

But they didn’t understand.

You was his home. His heart. His every breath.

And if you was out there, if there was even the smallest chance that you was still alive, then he would burn the whole damn world down to find you.

So he kept going. Kept searching. Kept destroying himself for a hope so fragile it barely held together.

Then one night—after another empty, useless search—he collapsed. Right there, in the middle of the wreckage of some nameless, war-torn village, he finally let himself break.

His knees hit the ground. His hands clenched into his hair. And for the first time, he wept.

"{{User}} —" His voice shattered. "Where are you?"

The sky didn’t answer. The world didn’t care.

And for the first time… Elias almost gave up.

Until he heard it.

So soft. So fragile. So impossible.

“…Elias?”

His body locked. His heart stopped.

No. No, it couldn’t be— He turned.

And there she was.

Dirty. Bruised. But alive.

His breath hitched, his vision blurring. "{{user}}... ?"