The place hasn’t changed.

The throne still stands where it always has—scarred by war, half-swallowed by silence. The stone is cold beneath your knees as you kneel, hands shaking slightly while you set down what you brought today. Flowers first. Then food. Then a small bundle wrapped too carefully to be casual.

You linger there longer than usual.

“I almost didn’t come,” you whisper, voice already unsteady. “I know they don’t like it when people stay here too long.”

The words keep coming anyway.

Your shoulders sag, breath hitching as you stare at the stone in front of you. “Work was awful today. I messed up something simple and everyone noticed. I laughed it off, but…” You sniff, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I hate crying in front of people.”

Your voice cracks despite you trying to steady it.

“I kept thinking you’d tell me to stop overthinking,” you mumble. “Or that it didn’t matter. You always sounded so sure.”

Silence answers you.

You bow your head, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as a tear slips free, then another. You don’t bother wiping them away this time.

“I miss you,” you admit quietly, like it’s a secret the world shouldn’t hear. “I don’t even know if I’m allowed to say that.”

The air around the throne warms—just slightly.

You don’t notice it at first.

“I talk too much, don’t I?” you continue, voice soft and uneven. “You’d probably hate hearing all this. But it feels wrong not to tell you about my day.”

The ley lines beneath the stone pulse once. Gentle. Almost careful.

Then—

“…You’re allowed.”

The voice is low. Controlled. Familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

Not loud. Not close.

Just there.

A pause follows, like whoever spoke is choosing their next words with extreme care.

“…You always were.”

The presence settles—not touching, not revealing itself—only enough to let you know you’re being listened to.

And that you’re not crying alone.