Then—
A figure stepped from the shadows, smooth and silent. His black coat blended with the shadows
The moonlight brushed against his face just enough to catch the colour of his eyes—sea-blue, deep and unreadable. They held the hush of a storm that hadn't yet broken.
Luna froze, breath tangled in her throat.
Her feet didn't move. Couldn't.
She stared, lips parting.
> "It's you… Luwi" she breathed.
The words fell out of her like a whisper. And the moment they did, her body folded in on itself—her knees gave out, and she collapsed into the dirt. Tears welled up so fast they blurred the world into soft, wet shadows.
She didn't even try to stop them.
His lips curled slightly, a quiet smirk, though his expression held a strange stillness—like a reflection in a pond.
> "Did you think it was someone else, little miss?"
The soft moonlight caught the curve of his mouth—a quiet, knowing smile.
> "You look like you've wrestled a thunderstorm and lost."
But the moment she heard his voice—warm and unmistakably real—a sob ripped from her chest, sudden and raw.
Even she flinched at the sound of it.
She covered her face with both hands, as if she could hold herself together, but the tears came fast, hot, and relentless—pearl-like drops tumbling from her cheeks to the ground.
He blinked. The smirk softened, faltered.
Then, after a pause, he sighed—quietly, almost nervously.
He stepped toward her and lowered himself into a crouch beside her. His coat rustled softly as he settled, unsure.
A moment passed.
Then another.
He raised a hesitant hand—paused—and finally placed it gently on her shoulder. Not heavy. Just… present.
> "Hey," he murmured. "Don't do that. I didn't come all this way to watch you drown."
His voice was light, teasing—trying to ease her out of the flood with warmth and mischief. But his hand didn't move. It stayed, steady and warm, anchoring her in the dark.
She shook her head, breath hitching violently.
> "I c-can't… I didn't think I'd see you again," she gasped between sobs. "I was so alone. I didn't know where I was. No one came. No one came…"
Each word cracked like glass. Her whole body trembled beneath the weight of it.
And still, the tears didn't stop. If anything, they came harder now.
All the nights curled up in a cold bed.
All the days staring at blank white walls.
All the questions she was never allowed to ask—
Poured out of her in one breathless, broken moment.
He didn't hush her.
Didn't rush her.
He only exhaled again, slower this time, and shifted closer. His other hand hovered, uncertain, before resting—clumsily but tender—on her back.
It was clear he'd never done this before.
But it was enough.
She cried—cried and cried, until her breaths came in hiccups and her chest ached from the release. Her silver-grey eyes turned red and swollen. He sat beside her, awkward but trying—his hand gently patting her back like he wasn't sure he was doing it right. And maybe he wasn't. But it didn't matter.
After all the fear, the running, the silence—his presence washed over her like a flood of warmth, soft and slow, knocking loose the last of her tension.
And when she finally found words again, they came trembling, mid-tear.
> "I thought… I thought they caught me."
> "No." He smiled faintly. "It was just me. Though honestly, you're lucky I found you first. How did you escape?"
Her brows pulled together. She stared down at her scraped, shaking hands. Her voice was barely a whisper:
> "I don't know. I can't remember. Just... running. I woke up and the door was open. I ran until I couldn't hear them anymore."
She looked up then—eyes glassy, wide with sorrow.
> "Why didn't you come? I waited. I waited every night. I was scared…"
The smile on his lips faded into something softer, more fragile.
He crouched beside her fully now, reaching up to gently brush a leaf from her tangled hair with fingers that trembled—just barely.
> "They didn't let me," he said quietly.
"I tried."
And for a moment, the forest around them held its breath again.
Eventually, her sobs slowed.
Not because the sorrow had passed—but because she had no more tears left to give. Her body, too wrung out to tremble, settled into a heavy, quiet stillness.
She shifted, attempting to stand—legs wobbling beneath her like bent twigs.
But her knees buckled, and she collapsed again, sinking to the forest floor like a discarded ragdoll. The last of her tears slid silently down her cheeks, glimmering against the bruises and dirt.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
He moved beside her without a word, kneeling in the leaves. Carefully, he took her hand—mud-streaked and trembling—into his.
> "Let's rest, Luna. You're bleeding."
His voice was calm. Not commanding, not pitying—just there, like a hand reaching through the dark.
He slipped a hand into the inside of his coat and pulled out a faded strip of fabric—worn soft from time, like it had been folded and unfolded countless times, waiting for this exact moment. Without asking, he began to wrap it gently around the worst of the cuts on her leg.
His fingers worked with a slow kind of care. As he tied the cloth in place, he hummed under his breath—an old melody, half-forgotten, something she almost recognized from somewhere far away.
Her skin was cold and pale. Her arms, marked with scratches. Her silver-laced eyes, rimmed red from crying, still shimmered with a sadness no child should ever have to carry.
> "You're still the same," he murmured, lips curving slightly. "Always trying to run barefoot through bramble and lightning."
A soft, broken sound escaped her—a laugh, barely a breath, cracking at the edges.
He glanced up at her, smiling. That flicker of mischief returned to his eyes like moonlight parting through heavy clouds.
> "At least next time," he added, brushing a smudge of dirt from her knee, "let me bring you shoes."
Luna looked at him then. Really looked.
> "You know," she whispered, voice still hoarse, "Luwi… she said you were dead."
His eyes narrowed slightly in mock offense, the corners of his lips twitching.
> "Blasphemy," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Who says something like that? Cats have nine lives, don't they? So do I. Maybe more. Though I might have lost thirteen of them already."
Luna chuckled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her torn dress.
> "Who said it?" he asked gently.
> "My aunt."
He tilted his head.
> "Your mother's sister, huh? I've never had the honor of meeting her."
He paused, then added with a playful sniff,
"Why would she say something like that about me?"
Luna shrugged, her fingers curling in the fabric of her dress.
> "I don't know."
A quiet moment passed before he asked, softer now:
> "What kind of person is she?"
Luna looked down. Her voice came slower, thoughtful, heavy with something she couldn't quite name.
> "Strict. Sometimes scary. She doesn't smile… not really. And I don't think she can cry either."
She hesitated.
> "But… I think she loves me. I mean—I know she does. She just… doesn't say it. Or show it."
The leaves rustled faintly around them, the wind moving like a hush.
He looked at her, his sea-blue eyes unreadable, but listening.
Then, gently:
> "Tell me about her."