The clearing had always been quiet—soft, secretive, like a memory that only Hope and Ilahash shared. But today, it felt like it was holding something heavier. The leaves swayed as if murmuring farewells. The stone where they always sat was dry this time, bathed in the golden spill of afternoon light.
Hope stepped into the clearing first, the letter from Amara clenched in her hand. She had read it a dozen times already, but the words hadn't grown any softer.
You have to choose, it said. Between the forest and the flame. Between love and duty.
Ilahash followed behind her, his shadow stretching long beside hers. He hadn't spoken since the message arrived. He didn't have to. She felt the tension wrapped around his silence.
"Do you remember the first time we met here?" she asked, without turning to look at him.
"I remember everything about that day," he replied, voice low. "You were wearing that ridiculous flower crown. You said the trees whispered to you."
"They did," she said. "They still do."
Hope sat on the stone, fingers digging into its rough edges. "Amara thinks the forest is changing because of us. That if I stay, something will break. Or burn. Or both."
Ilahash sat beside her, closer than usual. "She's wrong."
"She's not," Hope whispered. "You felt it too. The river glowed when we touched. The glade bloomed out of season. And the dreams—your dreams—they're not just dreams anymore, are they?"
He didn't answer. That was answer enough.
Hope placed the letter between them. "Then we have to choose."
Ilahash turned, eyes locking on hers, wild and wounded. "No. You don't walk away from something real just because it's inconvenient."
"But what if staying means I lose myself?"
He stood. "And leaving means I lose you."
The wind picked up, scattering petals from the tall grass. One landed on Hope's knee—a tiny white one, trembling like her heart.
"I'm not asking to stop loving you," she said, rising slowly. "I'm asking if love is enough."
Ilahash looked broken, like something sacred was unraveling inside him. "It is. It has to be."
Hope reached for his hand, holding it with both of hers. "Then let this be our promise. Not an end. Just… a pause."
His grip tightened. "I don't know how to live in a world where you're not in it."
"You won't have to," she said softly. "I'll be in every breath you take. Every tree we ever touched. Every step you walk in this forest."
Ilahash pulled her into an embrace. They held each other like the world might shatter if they let go.
The sun dipped low, throwing amber light across the clearing.
And then, slowly, painfully, Hope stepped back. Her tears didn't fall yet. They were waiting for when she was alone.
"I'll write," she said.
"I'll answer," he promised.
She turned, and as she walked away, the trees closed behind her—gentle, mourning, and slow.
Ilahash remained in the clearing long after she was gone, holding the letter and a single white petal in his palm.
It was the kind of goodbye that didn't sound like goodbye at all.
It sounded like hope.