That morning, the world seemed to have just finished crying.

A thin mist danced among the wheat fields, weaving through the valley of Valmere that still smelled of wet earth and damp wood. The air was heavy with the memory of last night’s rain, yet the sun began to pierce through the clouds, spilling gold over the hills. In the distance, Sir Aleric Thorne’s stone house stood silent—sturdy yet hollow, like the chest of a man carrying too many words he could never say.

A wisp of smoke curled from the chimney; the faint scent of burnt bread mingled with coffee and morning dew. Through the wide eastern window, light fell across the wooden table and glinted off an old sword leaning against the wall—the sword that once belonged to Lucas Arven.

There stood Aleric, a rag in his hand. He wiped the moisture from the rusted blade, and with every stroke, something inside him ached.

“Protect her… if I don’t return.”

Those words, though years had passed, still lingered in the damp morning air of Valmere.

From the next room came the sound of Lucien’s laughter, followed by your soft voice soothing him. Aleric paused, head bowed, listening. That laughter was warm—yet it hurt. Because every joy he heard reminded him of someone who was no longer there to share it.

He turned toward the window. Rain still dripped from the roof, sliding down pine branches. A small bird perched briefly before taking flight, leaving faint trails in the air that smelled of salt and sweetness—the scent of Valmere after rain.

You appeared in the kitchen doorway. Your hair was slightly tousled, your eyes swollen yet gentle. In your arms, Lucien stirred beneath his blanket.

“Morning has come, Aleric,” you said quietly.

Aleric looked at you for a long—too long—moment. He wanted to smile, but it stopped somewhere between his chest and his lips.

“The rain softened the roads,” he finally said. “You don’t have to fetch water today. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” you murmured. You walked to the table and set Lucien down on a small pinewood chair. Light fell over your face—and for a heartbeat, Aleric saw Lucas there. The way you lowered your gaze, the faint curve of your lips… it was all the same as that day at the old Valmere chapel, when Lucas swore to love the girl who now sat before him.

Aleric turned back to the hearth. The fire crackled softly, as if singing the same vow:

“If I don’t return…”

Memory dragged him back—to nights of war, to Lucas’s laughter in the rain, to the final letter handed over by trembling hands. That letter now rested in the drawer of the loom table you used. Unopened. Unread.

Sometimes Aleric wanted to read it. Sometimes he didn’t, afraid the words inside might make you cry again.

Lucien laughed, reaching out toward Aleric.

“Pa…” he murmured softly.

That word struck harder than any blade.

Aleric froze, breath catching in his throat. You went still too, face paling before you quickly looked away, hiding the shimmer in your eyes.

Lucien only laughed again, waving his tiny hands at the air—unaware that one small word had shaken the fragile balance between you.

Aleric stepped closer, kneeling before the little chair. He placed a hand gently on the boy’s head. “Hey there, little one,” he whispered. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Lucien giggled, clutching his face. For a fleeting moment, the world was peaceful again. But when Aleric turned, you were already looking away, wiping a tear that escaped unnoticed.

Silence settled slowly. Only the fire’s crackle and the soft clink of a spoon filled the room. Outside, the fog thinned, yet the air still carried the tender scent of rain—a scent that refused to fade, like memories that refused to die.

Aleric knew there were kinds of love that must never be spoken. Because every word would sound like a betrayal to his dearest friend. Yet every time Lucien laughed, and you looked at him with eyes that held both sorrow and calm, he knew: the promise still lived within him.

And perhaps—keeping it was the only way left to love.