Just as Amaya believed she was on the brink of despair—her thoughts swirling like autumn leaves caught in a turbulent wind, her spirit plummeting into an abyss as dark as an unending night—the door flew open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence like glass.
Light spilled into the chamber, washing away the shadows that had clung to her like cobwebs. In the doorway stood a tall figure, framed by the glow. His hair, ash-gray, caught the light like silver threads; his eyes, sharp and blue as glacial ice, locked on her with a look that was at once urgent and impossibly gentle.
"Marx," she breathed, her voice fragile, fragile as glass on the verge of breaking. "You came…"
He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, his strides long, purposeful. Kneeling, he swept her into his arms with a desperation that trembled beneath his restraint. His embrace was firm yet unbearably careful, as though she were porcelain already cracked.
