55.

It was late.

The kind of late where the city outside her window softened into a distant hum, where the stars shimmered faintly above a skyline blurred by fog and light. Alina sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, her laptop still resting open. The page of the myth glowed quietly on the screen, the faded words almost breathing in the silence of her room.

Her fingers twitched but she did not scroll.

She simply stared.

There was a knock.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just one, soft and steady. It was so unexpected that it took her a moment to realize it was real. Her heart stilled as she stood, legs heavy beneath her.

She opened the door a sliver.

And froze.

Caelan.

Standing there.

Tall and quiet, his expression unreadable in the pale light of the hallway. His white hair was slightly tousled, like he had run his hand through it more times than he should have. His eyes, those impossible silver-grey eyes, held something like… worry. Or longing. Or something she couldn’t let herself name.

Alina’s first instinct was to close the door.

She tried.

Her fingers gripped the edge, her shoulder leaned against it, but before it could shut completely, Caelan’s hand reached out and gently, almost effortlessly, pushed it open.

Not forcefully.

Just firm.

Just enough.

The door gave way like it had always been waiting to.

Alina stumbled back, caught off guard not just by his strength but by his presence. She stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

"You shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Caelan stepped in slowly, not with the boldness of someone who had the right, but with the quiet purpose of someone who simply refused to stay away.

His gaze drifted past her, to the open laptop glowing on the bed behind her.

To the story.

The myth.

He took a slow breath and spoke gently.

"That story isn't true."

His voice was steady, like a stone dropped in still water.

Alina didn’t move.

"You didn’t burn anything, Alina," he said, softer now, his words brushing against the stillness between them. "It’s a very old tale. A long one. Told too many times by people who don’t understand it."

Her throat tightened.

Her fingers curled into her palms.

"But I saw it," she whispered, eyes brimming. "I felt it. I heard my voice. I called your name."

Caelan took one step closer.

Alina didn’t retreat, but her breath hitched.

"I don’t know what you saw," he said, watching her carefully, "but I know you’re not alone in it."

She sniffed loudly, the tears rising before she could stop them. One slipped down her cheek. Then another.

"Why does it feel so real?" Her voice cracked like glass. "Why does it feel like it’s mine?"

Caelan reached for her.

Slowly.

Giving her time.

And when she didn’t pull away, his arms wrapped around her carefully, and she found herself pressed to his chest, the quiet beat of his heart steady beneath her ear.

She trembled once.

He held her tighter.

One of his hands rose to her head, fingers threading gently through her hair, brushing over her scalp in soothing motions. His touch was not hurried. Not desperate. Just present. Just warm.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, and there was something pained in his voice.

Alina said nothing.

She couldn’t.

Because she hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected him. And she definitely hadn’t expected that the moment his arms were around her, all her strength would collapse inward.

"I’m scared," she admitted, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I don’t understand any of it."

"You don’t have to," he replied.

His voice vibrated against her cheek, low and calm, but heavy with something old.

"Not yet."

They stood like that for a long time.

No explanations. No demands. Just a silence that felt heavier than words. A silence filled with myths and questions and memories that didn’t quite belong to this world.

Eventually, her breathing evened.

And Caelan didn’t let go.

Not even when she whispered his name again, not in fear this time, but in something softer.

Something like recognition.

Something like belonging.