Towards evening, his office was in its usual semi-darkness—the lamp flame swayed in the glass, casting a soft light across the table, lost among the papers, stamps, and the shadow of a glass in which coffee had long since cooled. Silco sat, as always, hunched over the documents, running his finger along the lines of reports, barely audibly repeating the numbers with his lips. His eye twitched with fatigue, but he didn't stop. All for the sake of order, for the sake of control, for the sake of Piltover, which had no right to trample Zaun again.

He didn't even notice when the day faded outside the window. Perhaps he only noticed when a bell rang somewhere far away—a factory bell, an evening bell. But it didn't remind him of anything. Not today. Not now.

At the same time, you were sitting at home, in a room where the lamp burned warmer than ever in his office. Two plates were waiting on the table, one of them was already starting to cool, the candles were smoldering quietly. In a box next to you was something personal and important, hoping that it would bring that rare smile that was worth waiting for months. But the minutes dragged on, the hours flowed by, and each one ate away a piece of your expectations.

When he finally arrived—after midnight, exhausted, fingers still shaking from work—you didn’t ask where he had been. You just nodded, pulled the blankets more evenly, and lay down with your back to him. The room smelled of wax and disappointment. Silco stood silently, trying to understand why the cold in your voice suddenly seemed stronger than the nighttime dampness from the window.

It didn't occur to him that today's date was important. He just felt that he had done something wrong—but he couldn't quite place what. Reports, promises, shouts from the Suburbs were swirling in his head, but not your hopes.

Only when he accidentally touched the box on the dresser—the same one, invisible among the other little things—did it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Carefully and lovingly packed, so simple and sincere that it hit harder than any sentence. For a moment he just stared at her, not understanding why he felt this familiar cold in his chest, like after a betrayal of trust he hadn't even noticed when he committed it.

His gaze involuntarily slid to the calendar hanging on the wall—and only then, finally, did his gaze stop. The date, outlined in a thin stroke of ink, suddenly seemed to him like a scream.

Silco stood for a long time, clutching the box in his hand, as if hoping that he could turn back time. His fingers were trembling not from fatigue but from the realization that had grown late in his head. And when he turned to you, who were lying on your back, with your face hidden in the pillow, he whispered softly:

"You were waiting for me today... right?"