The first morning frost kissed the petals of the ivy blooms that clung to the side of the old path. Wren's boots crunched softly against the glistening earth as she made her way forward, her fingers brushing the edges of the brittle leaves, as if gathering memories left behind. The forest was quieter now, its heartbeat faint, like it was listening.
Every step Wren took toward the valley made the world quieter, her thoughts louder. She hadn't seen Lark since that moment beneath the pine branches—when his voice had broken, and hers had failed to rise. She remembered the shadow in his eyes, the way he'd turned away like the forest was the only place left that could understand him.
Now, she was following something invisible—an ache, a whisper, a pull in her chest she didn't know how to name. It led her to the edge of the river.
The bridge stood before her.
It was old, maybe older than anything in the forest. Made of glass, but not like window glass—this shimmered like ice under moonlight. It was a deep, delicate blue, almost translucent, with tiny veins of silver flickering within. Ivy crawled up its arches, and fallen blossoms lay still at its entrance, like an offering no one dared disturb.
She stopped.
The Bridge of Blue Glass was only spoken of in soft tales around sleepy fires—stories of love too tender to survive the world, of hearts that couldn't be unbroken. Some said the bridge only appeared to those who had something left to forgive.
Wren didn't know if that was true, but the wind seemed to pause, waiting.
She took a step onto the first shimmering panel. It didn't creak or break. It welcomed her weight with a soft, crystalline hum. She moved forward, halfway now, the river flowing silently beneath her.
Then she saw him.
Lark stood on the far side, his head bowed, fingers trailing along the ivy vines. His coat was damp, his hair windswept, and he looked like he hadn't slept. When he lifted his head, their eyes met, and the bridge pulsed faintly beneath her feet.
Wren didn't speak.
Neither did he.
The world held its breath as they closed the distance, step by step, until only a breath of air separated them in the center of the bridge.
"You found it," he whispered.
"I wasn't looking for it," she said softly, voice barely louder than the wind. "It found me."
He nodded, but the sadness in his eyes deepened. "That's what it does. It finds people who are lost."
Wren looked down at the glass beneath them, the way it shimmered like trapped starlight. "Then I must be very lost."
"I think we both are," he admitted.
Silence settled again, heavy with things they hadn't said. Regret wrapped around them like mist.
"I hurt you," Lark said finally, his voice cracking. "Back then. I thought… I thought I was protecting you. From me. From what I might become. From the magic that was changing everything."
She looked up at him, her own eyes glistening. "You didn't need to protect me. You needed to trust me."
His breath caught. "I didn't know how."
They stood at the very center of the bridge. Beneath them, the river rippled with winter light, as if the water remembered all their yesterdays.
"I used to think love was something you had to hold onto with both hands," Wren said. "Like it would slip away if you blinked too long."
"And now?" he asked.
She met his gaze. "Now I think love is something you open your hands for. You don't trap it. You let it stay, if it wants to."
Lark stepped closer, his hand trembling. "Then let me stay."
A tear slipped down Wren's cheek. "Only if you don't disappear again."
"I won't," he promised. "Not unless you ask me to."
They stood there, heartbeats echoing like a soft song through the still air. And then, quietly, Wren reached out and took his hand. Their fingers fit like roots twining beneath the soil—old, knowing, patient.
The bridge glowed beneath them, a soft radiance rising like breath. And Wren understood—this wasn't just a bridge made of glass. It was a memory. A promise. A place where forgiveness bloomed like morning frost on wildflowers.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and they watched the sky together—soft gray clouds parting just enough for a sliver of sun to slip through, casting dappled light across the valley.
They didn't speak of the pain anymore. It wasn't gone, but it didn't own them now. It lived beside the sweetness, the small joys, the quiet ache that made their love real.
Behind them, the forest remained, waiting.
Ahead of them, the path curved gently toward the hills, where the glade once bloomed and fireflies whispered dreams to the trees.
Wren squeezed his hand.
"Let's go home," she said.
And Lark smiled, for the first time in days.
"Yes," he said, "let's go."