The cold bites at your skin as you pull your cloak tighter, your boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. The wind howls through the trees, but it's not enough to drown out the heavy footsteps behind you.

You know that step. That weight.

Turning slowly, your breath catches in your throat. Jon stands there, clad in black, his cloak dusted with frost, his sword at his hip. His dark eyes are unreadable, but the way they flicker over you—disbelief, relief, something deeper—tells you this is no ghost before you.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The years stretch long between you, the Wall, the war, the death.

Then Jon exhales sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. "You’re real," he mutters, as if trying to convince himself.

"You’re one to talk," you shoot back, your voice softer than you intended. "You died, Jon. You died, and you left me."

Regret flashes across his face, but he doesn’t look away. He never does. "I came back."