And you…

You still wait.

Your life continued, but hollowed. The days stretched long and empty, marked only by the ache of absence and the faint echo of his name whispered in your heart. You still wander the same gardens where he once pressed his fingers lightly to your wrist, feeling your pulse with a tenderness that lingered like a secret prayer. You memorize the rhythm of your own heartbeat as if it might slip away without him.

His letters remain locked away in a drawer you never open, their edges yellowed with time but their words alive inside you. And beneath your cloak, pressed close to your chest, you wear the brooch he gave you—the delicate silver crow feather with its onyx eye—a token of a love once vibrant, now hidden from the world but never forgotten.

No one speaks his name anymore. No one dares.

The legend of Vessen Enarola has faded into silence, swallowed by fear and falsehood. The man who once walked among the empire’s nobility—monocle gleaming, kindness in his eyes—has become a ghost story, a warning, a curse.

But in the deepest shadows of the ancient forest, a dark manor still stands, worn and silent.

Within its cold walls sits a man—Vessen, now twenty-nine years old—older than the boy you once knew, but not yet worn by the world. Yet exile has marked him; his once confident posture is now weighed down by solitude and regret. His dark hair is streaked with silver at the temples, a cruel reminder of the years stolen from him. His monocle still gleams faintly, but the kindness in his eyes has been dimmed by pain.

Every day, he sits by the window, staring out into the woods, wondering if the curse they all feared was ever truly his. His hands tremble as they trace letters he never sends, imagining your touch, your voice, your presence.

And then, one day—after years of silence—you come.

There are no grand announcements, no proclamations. Just yourself, walking through the rain-soaked forest, cloak heavy, boots sinking in mud, heart pounding with hope and fear. You follow the faintest whispers, the broken paths until at last, you stand before the iron gate of his manor.

The gate groans under your touch. Your breath catches when you see movement inside—there, in the dim light of a window, stands a figure.

Vessen.

Older. Changed. But unmistakably him.

His eyes widen in disbelief as your gaze meets his. The years collapse between you, falling away like shadows at dawn.

He steps forward hesitantly, as if afraid you might vanish like a dream. Then, with trembling hands, he pulls open the heavy door and steps into the storm.

You meet on the threshold—two souls battered by time, scarred by exile, but unbroken.

“...You came.” He breathes, voice rough and raw.

Your eyes soften, wet with unshed tears. “I never stopped.” You say simply.

Rain clings to both of you as silence stretches, heavy with all that’s been lost.

He reaches out, trembling, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. The touch ignites a flood of memories, hope, and pain.

“I thought… I thought you would hate me,” he whispers, haunted.

You smile, fierce and tender. “I thought you would never come back. But here you are.”

The storm outside rages quietly as he pulls you close, holding you with the desperation of a man who made loving you a war within himself.

“I made loving you a battlefield,” he admits. “Afraid you would despise the man they said I was... afraid I would lose you forever.”

“You never lost me,” you whisper against his chest. “And I never stopped loving you.”

The rain slows. The storm eases. Ravens settle into silent watch above. Within the broken walls of the manor, light stirs—first a flicker, then a flame—as two lost souls find their way back.

Perhaps the curse was never real. Perhaps the only curse was believing love could not survive fear.

And beneath the darkened skies on this birthday—July 1st—as the forest holds its breath, Vessen Enarola and you begin again—slowly, carefully, and with the fierce hope of those who have waited a lifetime for a second chance.