What the Night Keeps
Years later, the night still came.
It came without ceremony, without fear, settling over Noctyrrh like a familiar cloak worn thin with use. The city had grown outward instead of upward—wide streets, low lights, spaces left deliberately unfinished.
Lumi walked them slowly now.
Age had touched her gently. A few silver strands threaded her dark hair. Her hands ached when the air turned cold. She welcomed both.
She carried a book beneath her arm, its pages soft from rereading. The ink had faded in places, but the words remained.
Stories always did.
At the edge of the city, where fields met stone, Blake waited. Time had carved him too—not weaker, just quieter. His movements held the ease of someone who no longer needed to prove he belonged.
"You're late," he said, smiling.
"I stopped to listen," Lumi replied.
"To what?"
She tilted her head, considering. "Nothing in particular."
Blake understood. He always had.
They sat together beneath the open sky, watching stars drift slowly across a darkness no longer bound to grief. Somewhere beyond the fields, voices carried—laughter, argument, music played badly and with enthusiasm.
Life, uncurated.
"Do they still ask about you?" Blake asked.
"Sometimes," Lumi said. "Less every year."
"And that doesn't trouble you?"
She shook her head. "Being remembered was never the point. Being free was."
Blake reached for her hand, their fingers fitting together with the ease of long practice.
"I used to think the night needed guarding," he said quietly. "Turns out it just needed trusting."
Lumi leaned into his shoulder, watching the wind move through the fields like a slow tide.
The night listened.
Not as a witness.
Not as a keeper of pain.
But as a companion—present, patient, unafraid of endings.
Somewhere in the city, a child opened a book and read a story about a realm that once mistook shadow for destiny.
And the night did not correct it.
It let the story live.
As all things should.