The sky was clear that night, the air sharper, the kind of air that smelled faintly of water even though the river lay a street away.
He walked slower this time. Not because he wasn't eager, but because anticipation itself was intoxicating. Every step toward the park stretched and stretched, as though the world conspired to make the hour last longer. Streetlights blinked awake one by one, their sterile glow paling beside the rising moon.
And there she was.
The same bench. The same oak tree with its skeletal branches weaving shadows across the ground. And her, seated as if she'd been waiting all along.
Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes betrayed her. They flickered to him the moment he came into view, and though her lips curved in a smile, he caught the brief, trembling relief before it fully bloomed.
"You came again," she said softly.
He lowered himself onto the bench beside her, his heart tightening at the way her voice always seemed to hover between presence and absence, like smoke.
"I said I would," he replied.
Her fingers twisted in her lap, pale against the fabric of her dress. It was simple—white, with sleeves too thin for the night's chill. But when the wind stirred, the fabric clung to her like water, and he had the absurd thought that she might dissolve if he looked away.
"You shouldn't make promises like that," she murmured. "You'll regret them."
"Why?"
"Because…" She hesitated, lashes lowering as she searched the grass beneath her feet. The pause was long enough that he wondered if she'd answer at all. Finally, she whispered, "Nights don't last forever."
Her words pressed into him like a weight.
The silence stretched. He wanted to reach for her hand but didn't dare, afraid of shattering the fragile balance that let her sit here beside him. Instead, he tried to fill the quiet with something ordinary.
"Do you ever read?" he asked, tilting his head toward the book-shaped absence on the bench.
Her eyes lifted, startled. Then she gave a small, rueful smile. "I used to."
"What kind of books?"
"Stories about people who lived longer than they should have. Or people who fell in love when they shouldn't have." Her lips curved faintly, but her voice carried no joy. "I think I liked them because they were impossible."
His throat tightened. "And now?"
Her smile faltered, slipping into something more fragile. "Now I just watch the moon."
The wind stirred again, carrying with it the faint scent of wet leaves. He watched her gaze drift upward, her face turned toward the silver light, and for the first time he noticed the faint sheen of moisture in her eyes. Not tears—not yet—but the glimmer of them, restrained, fighting to stay unshed.
He wanted to ask. Who she was. Why she said the things she did. Why she looked at the moon as if it were both her captor and her salvation.
But the words froze on his tongue. He couldn't bring himself to wound the moment with questions that felt too heavy.
So instead, he leaned back on the bench, folding his hands behind his head, letting his gaze follow hers toward the heavens.
"If you're only here when the moon shines," he said quietly, "then I'll be here too. Every time."
The statement surprised even him with its certainty. He didn't know why he said it, didn't even fully believe in the strangeness of her existence. But it felt right, like a vow stitched into the night itself.
For a heartbeat, she didn't move. Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—her shoulders relaxed. The tension in her hands eased. And when she turned her face toward him again, the smallest smile lifted the corner of her mouth.
It was not the sad smile she'd worn before. It was something softer. Warmer.
And though she said nothing, her expression answered him all the same.
The night grew quiet again, but it was no longer the silence of strangers. It was the silence of two people sitting in the fragile glow of the same moon, breathing in time with each other, afraid to break the spell.