The forest had grown quiet by nightfall. The old shack creaked softly in the wind, its timbers worn but still holding against the years. Inside, a single lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Yuna sat near the bench where the stranger rested, her hands folded in her lap, though her mind offered her no rest.
He had slept most of the day, fever rising and falling with each shallow breath. Yet she never left. She told herself it was duty—after all, what life was worth if one turned away from the suffering of another? But beneath that thought stirred something else. Something she dared not name.
A low groan drew her attention. He shifted, eyes fluttering open, dark as midnight.
"You're still here," he rasped, voice rough with weariness.
Yuna met his gaze, calm though her heart quickened. "Did you expect me gone?"
His lips curved faintly, though no smile touched his eyes. "Most would've run the moment they saw the blade on me. Or finished the work death already began."
Her pale brows knitted, but she said nothing. He watched her a moment longer, then let his head rest back against the wall.
The silence stretched until Yuna finally spoke. "You've killed men before." It was not a question.
The shadows deepened around him. He closed his eyes, exhaling slow. "Aye. More than you should ever know."
Her chest tightened. The words were heavy, final, and yet not cruel. There was no boasting in them, no defense—only truth. The truth of a man who carried his sins like chains.
Still, Yuna did not move away. Instead, she studied him in the dim light, the planes of his face etched in weariness, in hardness, but not without something human beneath.
"Does it haunt you?" she asked quietly.
For a long time, he did not answer. When he finally did, his voice was softer, almost distant. "Not the dying. Only the living. The faces of those I left behind. The things I never said."
Her breath caught. Something in the way he spoke—regret cloaked in steel—stirred unease within her, as if this moment were a glimpse into a fate already written.
She leaned back, folding her hands tighter in her lap. "Then perhaps one day," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "you will find a reason to live for, not just die for."
His eyes opened again, fixing on her with quiet intensity. For a heartbeat, the air between them stilled, heavy with unspoken words. Then he turned his gaze away, toward the lantern's flame.
"Perhaps," he murmured, though the word sounded less like hope, and more like a promise he knew he could not keep.
The shack fell to silence once more, but in the hush of the night, Yuna felt the weight of those words settle deep within her chest.
And somewhere, beneath the rustling leaves outside, the flowers of the field slept, waiting for the dawn of a day neither of them yet knew would be their last together.