Sunlight stretched across the open countryside, gilding fields of green grass that swayed in the cool breeze. The air was unburdened, untouched by anything harsh or violent. In that quietude, a child ran.
Lucian moved with careless urgency, his small feet pressing into the earth as he sprinted toward a house that stood ahead — an old structure, yet familiar and enduring.
"Big sis! Big sis!"
His voice carried brightly through the stillness. He skidded to a stop beneath a window, his arms lifting to wave with unrestrained enthusiasm, something clutched tightly in his fist.
For a moment, there was no response. Then, a faint groan broke the silence as the window shifted open. A young woman with long, golden hair leaned out. Her eyes were deep blue, clear as the ocean, and while her expression held a touch of mild irritation, it did little to mask the underlying familiarity in her gaze.
"What do you want now, Lucian?"
Lucian only grinned, lifting his prize higher, unbothered by her tone.
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture was softened by a flicker of affection. Before she could speak again, he had already vanished toward the crooked door below. His footsteps thudded rhythmically as he rushed up the stairs to her room.
A sharp, satisfied exhale escaped him as he crossed the threshold, the scent hitting him instantly. He drew in a deep breath, eyes closing as he savored the aroma. A smile tugged at his lips.
"You really know how to make my mouth water, Big Sis Hana."
Hana said nothing at first. She tapped her spoon against the rim of the pot, once, twice, before setting it aside on the counter with deliberate care. She turned to him, her expression neutral yet laced with a weary, older-sisterly authority.
She remained graceful even in her annoyance. Her hair — a soft golden hue with threads of warm amber fell loosely over one shoulder, catching the light until it seemed luminous. With a quiet, weary breath, she gathered the strands. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, pulling the hair back and searching the table for a long pin. Without looking away from him, she slid the pin through, securing it neatly behind her head.
"So," she began, her tone measured as her hand lingered at the nape of her neck, ensuring every strand remained in place. "What is it today?"
A knowing smile curved across Lucian's lips — quiet and deliberate. Without a word, he produced a letter from behind his back, holding it just long enough for it to register before presenting it fully.
The effect was instantaneous.
A flicker of sharp expectation crossed Hana's face, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. She reached out in a single, fluid motion and snatched the parchment from his grip, her composure unraveling as her fingers fumbled for the seal.
Is it from Jurgen? Her thoughts raced, frantic and circular. Has he decided to check on me? Did something happen to him?
Finding no patience for a clean break, she tore the edge of the envelope.
"Jeez, calm down, sis. The letter isn't going anywhere," Lucian remarked.
He folded his arms across his chest, his posture settling into an exaggerated pout. He looked mildly offended by her lack of restraint, though his eyes remained fixed on her with wary intent.
Hana didn't respond. Her focus had already vanished into the ink on the page.
The urgency in her expression faltered as her gaze swept across the lines. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light of anticipation drained from her features. What replaced it was not anger, nor frustration, but a quiet, hollow disappointment that settled in like a passing shadow.
It was subtle, yet undeniable. It wasn't what she had hoped for. Deep down, she knew Jurgen rarely considered her, yet she found herself hungering for his attention, a truth that bit into her with every passing day.
"Not what you were expecting?"
Lucian's voice was light, though it carried an underlying chill — an unspoken I told you so, tempered by a genuine, quiet concern. He straightened, his gaze searching hers. He had been so eager to deliver the message, hoping for a reprieve, or better yet, news of the man who caused her such quiet suffering.
"Is it that Nemesio guy again?" he went on, his tone shifting to mild curiosity. "That's, what… the third letter in three days?" He gestured loosely with his hands. "Is he your boyfriend or something?"
Since Jurgen's departure, Nemesio had been the one to send letters daily, filling the void left by the man who remained silent. He took the initiative, a steady hand trying to soothe her restless mind.
Hana's head snapped up, the movement sharp. A trace of irritation flickered in her eyes, edged with that familiar, effortless authority.
"Sshh… don't start," she muttered, cutting him off before the thought could take root.
"He is not my boyfriend."
The correction was firm, final, though her attention had already drifted back to the page. Her fingers slowed, tracing the lines of Nemesio's writing, reading the words with a heavy, deliberate care.
A faint breeze brushed her skin, but it brought no comfort. Hana stared at the name scrawled on the parchment, her thumb tracing the ink until her nail turned white. Her chest ached with a hollow, rhythmic thrum, the desperation of a starving dog hoping for a scrap. She bit down on her lip until the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, forcing the tears back.
"Jurgen…"
The name was a ragged breath, barely a prayer.
Lucian's jaw locked. He turned toward the window, his shoulders bunching with an instinctive, simmering loathing. He stared out at the sprawling, uncaring green, unable to look at her.
"All he does is grind you into the dirt," he spat, his voice dropping into a low, jagged rasp.
Hana looked at his back — a rigid, unforgiving wall. The truth sat between them, bloated and undeniable, yet she clung to the letter like a shroud.
"You're wrong, Lulu," she said. Her voice wasn't soft; it was brittle, the sound of glass about to shatter. "He doesn't hurt me."
She stared at the paper, her fingers trembling as they crumpled the edges. "He's just… occupied. The Defense Corps. You know how it is. It's grueling work."
The lie hung in the air, thick and foul, clawing at Lucian's ears. It was a pathetic, self-inflicted wound, a story she fed herself daily just to stave off the rot of reality.
"Tch."
The sound tore from Lucian's throat, a sharp, ragged expulsion of breath. He spun around, his restraint snapping like a dry twig.
"He hasn't written a single word, Hana! Not since the day he left."
He sliced the air with a violent, jarring gesture, as if trying to carve the truth into her skin, his eyes wide and burning with the cruelty of a man who could no longer stomach the delusion.
"And do I need to remind you how it happened?" His voice climbed, grating against the silence — a jagged, ugly sound. "I was gone for three days. Three days, and you sent me off to Aunt Naya's like I was some unwanted baggage. Just so you could have your time alone with him."
A corrosive bitterness leaked into his tone.
"And when I came back?" He stopped, his jaw shifting as he choked back the rest. His voice turned hoarse, scraped raw by the resentment of a thousand sleepless nights. "Guess who came crying to me."
Hana stared at the grain of the counter, her knuckles turning bone-white as she gripped the wood. She refused to look at him; she refused to acknowledge the truth he was carving into her skin. Her silence was a barricade, fragile and pathetic.
"Just stop, Lucian."
The words were clipped, stripped of all warmth. She turned away, her movements stiff, and slid the letter into the drawer. It joined the pile, a graveyard of ink and empty promises, a stack of paper yellowing in the damp dark.
"I don't have time for this."
The silence that followed was heavy, stifling, smelling of dust and dried blood. Then, it fractured.
Lucian's composure collapsed. He stepped forward, his shoulders trembling with the violent, restrained kinetic energy of a man who had seen too much.