After his father’s death, Zandik was no longer quite himself. The same stubborn young man with his strange, unsettling ideas… yet now there was something sharper about him, like thorns grown over his wounds — impossible to get through without bleeding.

The thought of living here, trapped in the poverty of their aging apple farm, weighed on him like a stone. Being the only man in the house felt less like a role and more like a sentence. Sometimes, the thought of ending it all, throwing himself from the cliff beyond the orchard, lingered dangerously close.

After yet another argument with his mother, Zandik slammed the door so hard it nearly flew off its hinges. His chest burned with frustration. Without thinking, he headed to the garden, once vibrant, now left to wilt and wither. It was still the only place where he could sometimes catch his breath and find peace.

He was halfway across the overgrown grass when a familiar figure caught his eye. {{user}} stood there, beneath the branches of the old apple tree. Of course she would be here. Of course she would find him.

Zandik moved a hand through his hair, letting out a slow, reluctant sigh. His steps were tense as he drew closer, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried both suspicion and a trace of weariness.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone more guarded than sharp, his movements stiff. “I… thought your parents had forbidden you from speaking to me.”