The night air was cool, the moonlight spilling across the narrow stone streets of Braavos. {{user}} leaned against the window frame, staring at the small trinket resting on the sill—another gift. A silver coin, foreign and unfamiliar, gleamed faintly in the pale light. It was not the first.

Jaqen was never seen when he left them. But his presence lingered, like a whisper in the shadows, impossible to ignore. She had grown used to waking and finding some new token of his attention: a carved piece of wood, a feather, a coin. All seemingly meaningless, yet all tied together by the man who gave them.

A voice drifted from the darkness behind her. “A girl keeps the gifts.”

Her breath caught. She turned to see him leaning casually against the wall, cloaked in shadow. His eyes glimmered faintly, unreadable, but the curve of his lips held the hint of a smile.

“You should not be here,” {{user}} said softly, though her tone lacked conviction. She had said it before, and yet each time he returned, she found herself waiting for it.

Jaqen tilted his head. “A man goes where he must. The Red God calls. Yet… a man lingers.” His words were soft, deliberate, and strangely intimate, as though they were spoken only for her.