It began with a cold wind.
No storm clouds. No lightning. Just a stillness, too deep to be natural.
The kind of silence that warns of a predator hiding in the brush.
Rion was chopping wood when the hairs on his neck rose.
He turned toward the woods.
Nothing.
But the flower she gave him—now wilted on the windowsill—had turned black overnight.
He didn't believe in omens.
Not until that moment.
---
He hadn't spoken her name in two years.
Not once.
He refused to summon memories of her voice, her scent, her madness. He'd buried them beneath new routines, new friendships, new hopes.
But ashes always rise when the wind is right.
And now he felt her again.
Not near.
But awake.
---
The villagers noticed, too.
Animals vanished into the hills.
The well ran cold.
Children cried without reason.
And the stars—those stars that once comforted him—now looked down like silent judges.
Even the innkeeper, brave old Mira, started leaving salt at her doorstep.
"Something's coming," she whispered. "Something old. Something cruel."
Rion sharpened his sword.
He didn't run.
Not this time.
If she had truly let him go, she'd stay gone.
If not…
Then this would end—one way or another.
---
Three days passed.
On the fourth night, a stranger arrived.
She wore traveler's clothes—dusty boots, a faded cloak. Hood up, hiding her face.
Rion knew before she even spoke.
Knew by the way the room chilled. By how the flame in the hearth dimmed.
By how his breath caught without his permission.
She asked for tea.
Sat by the window.
Said nothing.
Mira served her, hands trembling.
The woman only smiled. A small, polite smile.
Like a guest.
Not a ghost.
Rion didn't confront her. Not yet.
Instead, he waited until the others slept.
Then found her sitting alone beneath the old ash tree.
She was humming.
He didn't recognize the song.
"You said you'd let me go," he said quietly.
She didn't look at him.
"I did."
"Then why are you here?"
A pause.
Then, softly, "Because I never said I'd let me go."
---
She turned.
The same lavender eyes.
The same quiet intensity.
But something was different.
She looked tired.
No madness. No glee. No obsession burning behind her gaze.
Just… sorrow.
"I thought I could forget," she whispered. "Thought I could erase you by saving others. By doing good. By being kind."
Her fingers trembled.
"But everything I gave, I gave because of you."
He watched her carefully. "What do you want, Lira?"
"I don't know anymore."
And somehow, that was worse than rage.
---
They talked for hours.
Not as captor and captive.
Not even as former lovers.
But as two broken pieces of a shattered thing, finally sitting amidst the glass.
She told him about the rituals she tried to undo the anchor.
About the children she healed in mountain villages.
About the times she walked into blizzards hoping not to walk out again—only to wake again and again, always cursed with breath.
"I was born with too much love," she said. "And nowhere to put it."
Rion didn't answer.
Because some wounds don't need replies.
Only silence.
---
When dawn came, she stood.
"I'll leave," she said. "You don't owe me forgiveness. But I needed to see you. To know you were real. That I didn't make it all up."
"You didn't."
She gave him one last look.
The kind you give when saying goodbye to a grave.
Then she walked away.
This time, she didn't look back.
And Rion…
Didn't follow.
But for the first time, he didn't feel afraid.
Only… sad.
---
A week passed.
The village felt lighter.
Birds returned. The well ran warm.
Mira stopped salting the doors.
And Rion found himself standing by the ash tree again.
There, beneath its roots, something gleamed.
Her pendant.
The one he'd thrown away.
He picked it up.
The chain was broken.
The stone inside—cracked down the middle.
He didn't smile.
Didn't cry.
Just closed his fist around it.