Wildflowers.

Tangled with ivy, leaned through fences that lined the orchard's edge, their petals closing for the night. In the still air, the sound of a wooden wheel creaked far off, and a pair of swallows darted once across the deepening sky.

But it was quieter still when they sat together—one always silent, the other filling the hush with honeyed riddles and gentle teasing.

Aseah would arrive like mischief wrapped in dusk, his steps light, his voice lighter.

“Moon’s hiding again. She’s either shy or terribly smug. Either way, I brought better company.” he said one evening, boots scuffing on old tile as he dropped beside us on the roof.

He stretched out beside us, arms crossed behind his head, eyes chasing constellations like familiar lovers.

“Bet the stars get tired of blinking. I'd forget how if I stared at you too long.”

There was never an answer, but he never waited for one. He simply smiled, wide and full of things he couldn't say in earnest—so he dressed them in jokes, cloaked them in whimsy.

Aseah plucked a stray blossom from the gutter and held it up to the fading light. He turned it between his fingers thoughtfully, then tucked it into their sleeve with an exaggerated gentleness, as though it were something fragile enough to break a promise.

“The sky’s quieter now. Must be jealous that I’m here instead of up there.”

Aseah’s laughter often followed his riddles, the kind that danced like wind chimes. Sometimes he’d tug on the hem of their sleeve, eyes narrowed with faux suspicion.

“You understand, don’t you? You always do. That’s why you never say a word. Clever little fox.”

Nights came differently now. With fewer footsteps and more quiet between you two. But that quiet never kept him away. By the time they both grew older—no longer children, but not quite grown—he stopped knocking on their door. He started climbing through the window instead.

On a chill evening not long after the harvest, the window creaked open again.

“Your lantern’s crooked, It’s been blinking at me all night. Rude thing. Kept me awake, you know.” he whispered the first time, brushing past the sill.

Bootsteps padded softly across the floorboards, the scent of pine needles and old paper clinging to him like another layer of clothing. He slid beneath the blanket with practiced ease, his arm draping lazily around their waist, fingers tapping a thoughtful rhythm along the edge of the quilt.

“Borrowing your bed again, hope the ghosts left some room for me.” he said, voice muffled against their shoulder.

The house settled with old, aching sounds. Outside, a lone owl called twice from a cedar post, and the breeze curled around the shutters like a secret.

“You smell like sleep and ink,” he murmured. “And something sweeter. Maybe clover. Or a lie I liked too much to unhear.”

He shifted, curling in closer, cheek brushing against their arm.

“I passed by the stream today. Same spot where I pushed you in that summer. You looked so betrayed—like I’d kicked a temple stone. And then you dunked me anyway.”

His laughter stirred the stillness again, low and bright.

“Never seen anyone so silent while committing vengeance.”

The wind outside picked up, rain whistling through the pines in soft, sorrowful tones. Aseah’s voice, though, stayed bright with candle-warmth, playful and tender.

“Did you know?” he whispered, fingers tracing idle loops on the blanket against your skin. “Every time I talk, I hope you’re memorizing the way I sound. Just in case I get lost.”

His breathing slowed, words falling quieter.

“I think I was born for this—curling up in someone else’s silence like it’s a coat that fits me better than my own.

He grew still, body heavy with the comfort of presence, of warmth, of nightfall that had no need for dreams.

But just before sleep stole him fully, Aseah’s voice returned, barely above breath.

“If I were wind, I’d always find your window first.”