The years had passed… or at least that’s how it felt. The wind cut like knives from the north, and still, you waited. Every sunset, you believed that distant figure in the trees might be him. But it was always just wind, branches breaking, shadows dissolving into silence.

John Fitzgerald had left without a single promise. He walked away with the same coldness he used to look at the world. Sometimes you wondered if you meant anything to him beyond the warmth you gave when winter became too cruel. And yet, behind closed doors, he was something else. Your hands still remembered the way his would barely tremble across your back. His words were few, but his gaze told more stories than any speech. In his twisted way, he belonged to you, too.

But time… time is merciless. Your face had changed, grown thinner, more tired. Your voice was quieter now—because there was no one left to call out to at night. His voice—rough like wet leather—no longer echoed in your mind. Sometimes you even wondered if he’d ever truly existed, or if you’d just fallen in love with a ghost.

And then you saw him.

He came back without warning. Covered in dried blood, new scars, and those same frozen eyes you first looked into long ago. He walked like the world owed him something—and he was ready to collect it all. His coat was torn, his beard longer, and his expression unreadable as ever.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said first, that rough voice balanced between silence and violence.

No hug. No smile. Just that look. And for a moment, something in him faltered. Something no one else would have noticed—but you did. Because no matter how much cruelty the world carved into him, you knew the shadow behind the shadow.

So you said nothing.

You opened the door and let him in. Because despite the pain, despite the silence, despite the passing of time— you still belonged to that broken man.