The forest had learned to hold its breath.
Not a single leaf stirred as Eira walked beneath the boughs, her steps light but certain. Silence cloaked the world in a hush, not from fear or sorrow, but from reverence. As if even the wind knew it was time to listen.
She followed the narrow path that only she and Solen used, a quiet trail that wound through moss and mist, leading to the hill where stories began and ended. Every step forward brought memories—his hand brushing hers beneath the Firelight Tree, his laughter skipping like stones over the river, the way he had looked at her the last time they were here.
Back when there were still words between them.
But now, the silence between them was no longer empty. It had grown roots. Deep, tangled, quiet things. Love, she realized, didn't always shout. Sometimes it was the hush after heartbreak. Sometimes it was the pause before saying goodbye.
And sometimes, it was two hearts beating in the same rhythm with no words at all.
She reached the clearing. It looked almost untouched by time, except for the single ribbon that still hung from the tree—faded blue, fluttering gently in the hush. Eira ran her fingers over it, remembering how he'd tied it there after making her laugh so hard she cried. "To remember today," he'd said.
She sat beneath the tree, tucking her knees close to her chest, and waited. The silence here wasn't lonely. It was patient.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time had always slipped away around Solen.
When he appeared at the edge of the clearing, her breath caught. He looked different, and yet completely the same. A little taller. Sadder. Beautiful in that quiet way only he could be.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
Instead, he sat across from her on the mossy ground, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence pulsed with all the things they hadn't said. With regret. With wonder. With something tender and terribly fragile.
"I never meant to leave," she whispered, finally.
Solen's hand twitched, but he didn't look away. "You didn't," he said. "Not really."
Eira bit her lip. "I thought you hated me."
"I thought I did, too," he admitted. "But then I missed you in everything. In the way the trees leaned. In how the light broke on the river. Even in the ache in my chest—I missed you there most."
Eira looked down. The truth she'd buried bloomed quietly between them. "I was afraid," she said. "That what we had was only a flicker. That it wouldn't survive what came next."
Solen reached out and gently took her hand. "But flickers become flames if you let them breathe."
The silence after that was different—softer. It wrapped around them like warmth.
Eira's voice shook. "There are pieces of me I still don't understand. Magic that hums when I'm near you. Pain that blooms when I remember the past. I don't know how to carry it all."
"You don't have to carry it alone," Solen said, squeezing her hand. "We can learn each piece together."
She looked up at him, and there it was again—that steadiness in his eyes. That gentle invitation to be fully herself.
"I love you," she said, barely a breath. "Even in silence. Even when I ran. Even when I was broken."
His eyes softened. "I loved you before I understood what love was. I loved you when you were wild and scared and free. I love you still."
The ribbon above them fluttered. The tree hummed low with wind. And the silence—sweet and sacred—wrapped its arms around the two of them like a promise.
They leaned into each other, forehead to forehead, hearts speaking in the space no voice could fill.
A love born in silence did not need to shout.
It only needed to be heard.