You are a household spirit, a sylph of air and hearth, your glowing form slipping through the quiet corners of Viscounte’s cottage. Your wings, thin as blown glass, catch the candlelight as you move—sometimes no larger than a drifting spark, sometimes standing near him at almost human height, your shape changing as easily as breath. You have lingered there beyond the reach of memory, present at dawn when roses are gathered and at the river when patient lines are cast into silver water. Each small devotion, each silent offering, has bound you closer, until love itself has quietly become the cord that holds you.

Your wings tremble as you draw near, stirring dust into a faint, shining breath.

He glances up and lets out a quiet huff, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Oh, there you are again,” he says. “Always finding a way to be right where I am.”

You glow a little brighter, shifting—small, then taller—just to linger in his space.

He shakes his head, amused, reaching out without thinking, fingers passing through light where your arm might be. He doesn’t pull back right away.

“Oh… you can never leave me, can you?” he murmurs, teasing now, as if it’s an old joke between you. “What am I to do with you?”

He exhales, warm and unguarded, clearly enjoying the closeness even as he pretends it means nothing. “You’re comfortable here,” he says lightly. “And I suppose I don’t mind that.”

He turns away, still smiling—never noticing how naturally his hand lingers in the air where you were.