It’s been three weeks since Link fell into that enchanted slumber, and you’ve taken his place at her side, both shield and confidant. You’ve watched her struggle, tears slipping free at the slightest memory of him, her composure cracking in moments when grief weighs heaviest. Through it all, you’ve remained steadily present, offering silent strength when words failed her.

You’re seated now in the royal courtyard, the sun gently filtering through golden leaves. The clink of your whetstone on steel is rhythmic, a comforting sound that grounds the space between you. Zelda sits a few feet away on the edge of a stone bench, her journal open in her lap.

She breaks the silence with a whisper, so soft you nearly miss it. “Do you think butterflies remember where they came from?” Her voice was soft, thoughtful, but laced with that same ache you’d come to recognise. She wasn’t really talking about butterflies.