A hug

The door creaked open.

A glint of silver flickered—then disappeared into its sheath. A shadow stepped back into the dimness.

“You—what are you doing here?” the woman gasped, jolting upright in bed.

A man stood in the doorway. His face was tight with dread.

“She’s back,” he said. “She’s out of prison.”

Her pulse slammed against her ribs. “That’s impossible. She was locked away for life! There’s no way—”

“I thought the same.” His voice trembled, torn between disbelief and certainty. “But my informant isn’t wrong.”

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her trembling frame. She gripped him like he was an anchor and the world had just tipped.

In the far corner of the room, where shadows stretched and light dared not reach, a woman in black watched.

Her eyes glittered—silent, unreadable.

Then, without a word, she turned and vanished into the dark.

---

She moved through the mansion like smoke.

In the library, the scent of old books curled around her—dust, leather, and ink heavy in the air. She didn’t linger. Her hand moved with precision, pulling book 1017 from the shelf.

A romantic novel.

She shook it.

A folded paper fell free.

Blank.

She frowned, flipped it over.

Still nothing.

The silence around her thickened as she carried the page to the villa’s abandoned study. The curtains were drawn shut, as if the room had been grieving in private. She ran her finger along the heavy desk—wood soaked with memory, with decisions made and lives destroyed.

She didn’t remember the man who once ruled this room.

But the grief hit her anyway.

Her knees gave out.

A tear fell. Then another. Then the flood.

Sobs broke from her chest—wild, unrestrained. Her hands covered her face, but it was no use. The storm had already been unleashed. Her tears hit the floor, darkening the wood like ink from a shattered pen.

“Sorry… Dad, I’m sorry.”

The words barely left her mouth, trembling and raw.

Then—silence again.

She stood. Unsteady, but upright. Her face blotched and flushed, but her spine straightened like a blade.

She opened the drawer and pulled out a row of tiny glass bottles. She uncorked one and poured the liquid over the blank page.

As it dried, ink began to surface—slow and blooming, like a bruise.

Not blank.

Her instinct had been right.

Her heart pounded. She returned to the library and tore ten more hidden sheets from their books. Back in the study, she revealed them one by one.

Each word emerged like a wound.

Not just words.

Weapons.

Secrets buried in gold and power.

Each sentence cut deeper than the last. Each phrase a shard of betrayal.

She read them twice. Then again. Until the sting dulled and her breathing leveled.

There would be no forgiveness.

Not this time.

She slipped out of the house like a whisper.

---

The night was cold and wet, a thin drizzle lingering in the air like a breath no one dared release.

Streetlights flickered through the fog, casting broken halos onto the concrete. Shadows draped the tall buildings like mourning veils.

She stood beneath one.

Still. Waiting.

Far above, in the top floor of a nearby building, a man leaned against tall French windows—his silhouette sharp against pale lamplight. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, unlit. Smoke wouldn’t help tonight.

Nothing would.

He stared through the rain-streaked glass, haunted by a face he hadn’t seen in years.

Purple eyes.

The memory of her was stitched into every inch of silence that filled his nights.

He didn’t know why—but he felt it. Like gravity shifting.

She was close.

And then—he moved.

His body acted before his mind caught up. Down the stairs. Out the door. Into the street.

And there she was.

A white dress clung to her like a ghost’s skin. Her hair was soaked, wild. Lashes heavy with rain. Her face pale as winter light. Her body trembled—like something not quite alive, and too broken to disappear.

He didn’t think.

He ran to her.

The rain blurred the city, his breath shallow, the weight of years pressing down. Then—he moved.

He wrapped his arms around her, hard and desperate—like if he held her tight enough, time itself might tear open and undo the years.

She was ice.

So cold.

But she was real.

He buried his face into the curve of her neck, eyes squeezed shut, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Rain slipped down his face.

Or maybe it was a tear.

He couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

He hadn’t meant to hold her.

Hadn’t meant to forgive her.

But the hatred, the blame, the years of fury—collapsed the moment she whispered, voice shaking, breathless—

“Iden… I… I missed you…”

Her arms crept around his waist, hesitant. Her cheek pressed to his chest. Her body shook with quiet sobs.

And just like that, the years dissolved.

The silence shattered.

The pain folded.

He cupped the back of her head, pressing his lips to her hair.

“Ellaya…”

Her name left his lips like an old wound breaking open.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

And the drizzle traced the contours of their faces—rain and tears blending until neither could tell which was which.

It never mattered.

Not then.

Not now.

Not ever.