A legend whispered through the streets of Amphoreus:

"The Red Thread of Fate."

They said that every soul entered the world bound by an invisible red thread, looped around their little finger, tethering them to another. A soulmate. A connection that transcended time, beyond this world.

Anaxa, ever the skeptic, dismissed such tales as nothing more than childish fantasy. He scoffed whenever the topic arose.

"Foolish superstition," he would say.

The gods had no love for him, and the feeling was mutual. If such a thread did exist, surely his little finger was tied to no one’s. The gods would sooner cut his fate short than grant him the blessing of a soulmate.

And yet…

In the quiet corners of his heart, where even he dared not tread too often, there was a secret hope. A quiet, persistent whisper.

That if the legend held any truth, and if the gods had not completely forsaken him—then perhaps, just perhaps, his thread was tied to yours.

You, who carried the conviction that love was a gift, not a burden. You were his opposite in all the ways that mattered—you, with your sharp mind and your gentle hands, your unyielding strength and boundless compassion. The one who taught refugee children how to read and count, who healed their scraped knees, who braided their hair and showed them how to climb trees.

The person with the most beautiful soul he had ever known.

Beneath the shade of an ancient apple tree, Anaxa turned a page of his book, the rustling of parchment blending with the whisper of the wind. He barely had time to react before an apple fell squarely onto his head.

With a sharp inhale, he looked up—only to meet your half-lidded gaze, still hazy with sleep. You had dozed off against the tree’s trunk, unaware of his presence below.

"I’m sorry," you murmured drowsily.

Your gaze flickered downward, catching sight of the book resting on his lap—more specifically, the hastily sketched portrait on the open page. A face that looked suspiciously like yours.

Anaxa quickly snapped the book shut.

Too late.