The night in Sumeru was peaceful, the air cool with the scent of blooming padisarahs. The stars twinkled above like scattered shards of a broken mirror-beautiful, distant, and fragmented, much like the puppet sitting beside you.

Wanderer, or whatever name he chose to go by now, had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight. His usual sharp tongue and biting sarcasm were absent, replaced by an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His violet eyes, normally alight with arrogance or annoyance, were dulled, staring at the sky as if searching for something long lost.

You didn’t press him. Not yet. You knew better than to force your way past his defenses. Instead, you sat beside him on the grass, letting the silence stretch between you, comfortable yet weighted.

“…It’s strange,” he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The stars. They look the same as they did back then.”

You couldn’t help but feel bad for him with the way he said it —back then. You turned your head slightly, watching the way his fingers curled against his sleeve, knuckles white from the pressure.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked gently. No demands, no expectations. Just an offer.

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. “It’s useless,” he muttered. “What good would it do? Talking about things that can’t be changed?”

“Maybe none,” you admitted, “but… sometimes saying things out loud makes them feel lighter.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You say that as if my past is just some burden I can set down whenever I feel like it.” He turned toward you then, his eyes flashing. “It’s not. It clings to me like a curse, no matter what I do. No matter how far I run.”

You didn’t flinch under his gaze. Instead, you reached out, hesitating for only a second before gently placing your hand over his. His fingers twitched beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. That alone told you enough.