Chapter 20: The Promise of Remembrance

The sky was painted in an impossible wonder—an expanse of gold and blue where pale and ethereal stars drifted like embers from some celestial fire. Though the sun still reigned above, the heavens bore the quiet weeping of a thousand falling stars, each one dissolving into the light before it could ever meet the earth. It was a gentle and grand sight, the kind of beauty that could never be held, only witnessed.

Harriet's eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, the world remained distant, his mind adrift between the echoes of his slumber and the waking world. His body felt weightless yet heavy, as though he had returned from some place far beyond his reach. The ceiling above him—plain wooden beams—felt unfamiliar, but the soft weight of a blanket and the faint scent of herbs in the air told him he was in a place of rest.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Beside him, against the wall, Geschicht sat slumped in a wooden chair. His journal rested loosely on his lap, a quill still pinched between his fingers as though he had been writing before exhaustion finally overtook him. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, his breaths slow, steady—but light, as if he had not truly given in to rest.

Harriet blinked.

His throat felt dry, his limbs stiff, yet he forced himself upright with a quiet inhale. The motion made the bed creak softly beneath him, but Geschicht did not stir. He looked as if he had spent these past two days at his bedside, unwilling to leave for more than a moment.

A small, tired smile ghosted Harriet's lips.

"…Idiot," he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse.

The sky outside remained alight with falling stars.

Geschicht stirred.

It started with the slow twitch of his fingers around his quill, then a quiet inhale as his brow furrowed, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His head, previously slumped against the chair's back, tilted forward slightly before his sharp blue eyes cracked open.

For a moment, he only blinked, still lost in the fog of exhaustion. Then, his gaze shifted—and met Harriet's.

A beat of silence.

Geschicht's back straightened so fast the chair nearly tipped. The journal in his lap slid to the floor with a dull thud, but he barely seemed to register it. His expression—caught between disbelief and relief—wavered for a breath before settling into something indescribable.

"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, as if the weight of sleepless hours still clung to his throat.

Harriet let out a weak chuckle. "Seems like it."

Geschicht just stared for a long second before exhaling, rubbing a hand over his face. "You've been out for two days."

Harriet raised an eyebrow, still propped against the pillows. "And you, what? Spent both of them watching me sleep?"

"…Not both." A pause. "Just most of them."

Harriet gave him a lopsided grin. "You really need a hobby."

"I need a hobby?" Geschicht scoffed, leaning forward with a weary smirk. "You're the one who decided to get yourself nearly cut in half."

"Well, I didn't decide—"

"Sure you did." Geschicht waved vaguely at Harriet's stomach. "I bet you saw a blade coming at you and thought, 'Oh, you know what would be a great idea? Taking this head-on.'"

Harriet snorted. "That's not how it happened."

"Mm-hm." Geschicht leaned back again, folding his arms. The exhaustion was still in his posture, but something in his expression had eased—some unspoken weight that had finally lifted.

A moment of quiet stretched between them, neither speaking, yet the air was warm with familiarity.

Harriet let his head rest back against the pillow. "Did I miss anything while I was gone?"

Geschicht glanced toward the window, where the last of the falling stars still traced silver streaks across the daylight sky. His lips quirked slightly before he shrugged.

"Nothing much," he said. "Just the whole world moving on without you."

Harriet's gaze drifted upward, tracing the fading trails of falling stars through the window. A deep breath filled his lungs, then left him in a quiet sigh.

"…Which also included Miss Flux's burial, right?"

Geschicht's faint smirk faded, his expression settling into something more solemn. He held Harriet's gaze for a long moment before nodding.

"Yes," he said softly. "She did get a proper burial."

Harriet closed his eyes briefly, as if absorbing the weight of those words. His fingers curled slightly against the blanket draped over him.

"How did you know?" Geschicht asked, his voice laced with curiosity—but also something else. A careful hesitation. "Didn't you pass out before everything ended?"

Harriet opened his eyes again and turned his head slightly, meeting Geschicht's questioning stare. His golden irises gleamed faintly in the dim light.

"Singularität," he murmured.

Geschicht's brow furrowed. He didn't reply immediately, only studying Harriet as if trying to pull meaning from the spaces between his words.

"…You saw?"

"I felt it," Harriet corrected. His voice was quieter now, tinged with something indescribable. "Not just her death, but her choice. Her will."

Geschicht's fingers twitched against his sleeve. "…That eye," he said, finally understanding.

Harriet nodded. He lifted a hand, brushing his fingertips lightly against his left eye—his new left eye, the one Barbel had given him.

"Her memories lingered," Harriet said. "Not as clear images, not as words. Just… emotions. Like echoes of what she felt in those final moments." He let out a slow breath. "She wasn't afraid."

Geschicht leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His expression was unreadable, but there was a heaviness in his gaze.

"Then what did she feel?" he asked.

Harriet was quiet for a moment. Then, with a small, almost bittersweet smile, he replied,

"…Remembrance."

Silence settled between them—not the heavy kind, but something gentler.

Geschicht ran a hand through his messy hair before sighing. "You should get more rest. You just woke up after two days, and I doubt you're at full strength."

Harriet smirked. "I could say the same about you."

Geschicht scoffed. "I'm not the one who almost died."

Harriet rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Then, softer, "I won't waste what she left me."

Geschicht looked at him for a moment longer, then simply nodded. "Good."

No more words were needed. The falling stars continued their silent descent beyond the window, fading into the vast, endless sky.

The sun hung lazily in the sky, golden light spilling across the cobbled streets of Dämmerburg. The air smelled of fresh timber and damp earth, the scent of repairs underway. Harriet and Geschicht strolled side by side, their steps slow, unhurried. Around them, workers patched up broken rooftops, smiths hammered at bent iron, and stone masons replaced the shattered portions of the roads. The city was mending itself, piece by piece.

Harriet stretched out his legs as if testing his body. He looked entirely recovered, walking with ease, but even he had to admit—his recovery was far from normal. Geschicht had commented on it earlier, muttering something about it being 'unnatural' before shaking his head with an exasperated sigh.

They turned a corner, stepping over a pile of rubble that had yet to be cleared away. That was when Geschicht spoke.

"Jelle got hit really hard." His voice was dry, like he was still trying to process the absurdity of what had happened. "I mean—she got launched up from the underground to the surface—" he gestured upwards, as if illustrating the sheer distance, "—crashed through all those layers of rock and earth, then smashed through a building before finally stopping."

Harriet snorted. "That explains why the city looks like this."

"No kidding." Geschicht shook his head. "The whole thing caused a massive ruckus. You should've seen it—people thought it was some kind of divine punishment or an omen."

Harriet laughed. "And what was Jelle's reaction when she finally stood up?"

Geschicht smirked. "First thing she did was dust herself off and say, 'I've had worse.'"

Harriet grinned. "Classic Jelle."

Geschicht chuckled before glancing around at the workers repairing the damage. "They've been working non-stop to fix everything. The Ident Order sent some folks to help, too—people from the Artisan and Caregiver Associations."

Harriet hummed. "That's good. Dämmerburg took quite a hit."

They walked in silence for a moment, watching as people moved around them—some hauling supplies, others tending to the injured. Despite the destruction, there was an undeniable sense of resilience in the air. The people of Dämmerburg weren't wallowing in despair. They were rebuilding.

"…You feeling alright?" Geschicht asked suddenly, giving Harriet a sideways glance.

Harriet smirked. "I feel great. Almost too great, considering how bad that wound was." He tapped his stomach lightly. "It's weird, isn't it?"

Geschicht raised an eyebrow. "Weird? It's downright unnatural." He crossed his arms. "Most people would be bedridden for weeks after something like that. But you? You're walking around like nothing happened. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you made a deal with an Egor."

Harriet chuckled. "Maybe I did."

Geschicht rolled his eyes. "If that's the case then where's my miraculous healing?"

Harriet smirked but said nothing. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the sky, where a faint trail of falling stars could still be seen in the daylight. His left eye—the one gifted by Barbel—felt warm. Not physically, but in some deeper, unexplainable way.

"…You ever think about miracles, Geschicht?" he asked.

Geschicht arched an eyebrow. "You're getting philosophical on me now?"

Harriet shrugged. "Just wondering."

Geschicht thought for a moment, then gave a small grin. "If miracles exist, you might just be walking proof of one."

Harriet chuckled, shaking his head. "That's a bit much."

Geschicht smirked. "Maybe, maybe not"

Harriet and Geschicht made their way toward the graveyard, their steps slow and measured as they walked past the newly repaired streets of Dämmerburg. The sky was still dusted with lingering traces of the falling stars from yesterday, faint glimmers of light fading into the broad daylight. The graveyard itself was quiet, save for the rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant hammering of workers still restoring parts of the town.

Stopping before Barbel Flux's grave, Harriet looked at the modest yet dignified headstone. His golden eyes softened as he exhaled a quiet breath. "It's nice that she was buried peacefully," he murmured.

Geschicht, standing beside him with his hands in his coat pockets, gave a small nod. "It's all thanks to Jelle and her position as a Grade 3 Ident," he said.

Harriet glanced at him, brow slightly furrowed. "Right… you mentioned that before. What exactly makes a Grade 3 Ident so special?"

Geschicht turned his head, surprised. "You really don't know?"

Harriet shrugged. "Never cared about all that rank stuff. You fight, you get stronger, and people give you fancy titles. That's about it, right?"

Geschicht let out a sharp sigh, rubbing his temples. "You're impossible sometimes, you know that?" He crossed his arms. "A Grade 3 Ident isn't just some fancy title. It means Jelle holds a position recognized by the Order of the Twelve Paths itself. Grade 3s are the backbone of the Ident structure—high enough to command respect, but still connected to the people on the ground. They're the ones who can make real decisions."

Harriet frowned. "Real decisions?"

"Yeah," Geschicht nodded. "They can authorize large-scale operations, give orders to lower-rank Idents, and have the influence to negotiate with nobles, town officials, even military leaders." He gestured toward Barbel's grave. "That's why her burial was done properly. Because Jelle had the authority to make it happen without question. A common citizen? No way they'd have gotten this much respect for a burial site. But a Grade 3 Ident? People listen to them."

Harriet whistled lowly, finally seeming to grasp the weight of it. "So, she really pulled some strings to make this happen, huh?"

Geschicht smirked. "Obviously. She went out of her way to ensure Barbel had a proper send-off, even after all that happened. That's what a Grade 3 can do. Influence. Power. Respect."

Harriet looked down at Barbel's grave again, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. After a long pause, he muttered, "I should thank her later."

"You should," Geschicht agreed. Then, after a moment, he added with a teasing grin, "And maybe you should start paying attention to how the world actually works instead of running in fists first—oh wait." He paused, eyes widening slightly in mock realization. "You're like a wooden stick without the branches."

Harriet blinked, then let out an exaggerated gasp. "Wow. Kicking me while I'm down?"

Geschicht snickered. "I'm just saying, if you're gonna charge headfirst into danger, at least bring some arms with you."

Harriet sighed dramatically. "Guess I'll just have to keep borrowing yours, then."

Geschicht groaned. "That's not how this works—"

Harriet grinned, patting his shoulder with one of his invisible hands. "Too late, you said it. It's official now."

Geschicht swatted at the spectral hand, grumbling under his breath, but he couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped.

Harriet glanced around before turning back to Geschicht. "Are there any flower shops nearby?"

Geschicht raised an eyebrow. "You planning to start gardening?"

Harriet rolled his eyes. "For the grave, obviously."

Geschicht nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, there should be one not too far from here." He led the way down the street, weaving past workers repairing the damaged buildings. Eventually, they arrived at a small flower shop tucked between two larger structures, its wooden sign swaying slightly in the breeze.

Harriet stepped inside, eyes scanning the vibrant selection of blooms. He reached for a bouquet of white lilies but hesitated, glancing at the price tag. A moment of silence passed. Then, he patted his pockets. Twice. Four times.

Geschicht sighed. "Don't tell me—"

"We're broke," Harriet admitted, exhaling sharply.

Geschicht pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course we are."

Harriet set the flowers back with a wistful look. "Guess Barbel's not getting any flowers today."

Geschicht hummed in thought before snapping his fingers. "We can always 'borrow' some from someone's garden."

Harriet shot him a look. "That's called stealing."

"It's called resourcefulness."

Harriet shook his head. "No. Just no."

Geschicht shrugged. "Alright, then how about we go see Jelle? She's at the prison right now, questioning the remaining members of Barbel's group."

Harriet frowned. "What for?"

"The reward money," Geschicht said plainly. "You know, from the expedition we signed up for before everything went to hell in the ruins?"

Harriet blinked. "Oh." He paused, considering it. "Wait, we'll still get paid for that?"

Geschicht smirked. "We did the job, didn't we?"

Harriet sighed in relief. "Good. Because I am getting those flowers."

Geschicht chuckled as they started walking. "Genuinely, so noble of you."

"I'm broke, not heartless."

The prison loomed ahead, a sturdy structure of cold gray stone, standing firm amidst the reconstruction efforts in Dämmerburg. Harriet and Geschicht made their way toward the entrance, only to spot two familiar figures standing just outside.

Uwe leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his signature red and blue eyes dim under the afternoon light. Liselotte stood beside him, warm hazel eyes scanning a small notebook in her hands, occasionally brushing aside a stray lock of hair.

"Oi," Uwe greeted as they approached, nodding at them. "Took your time."

"Had to remember we were broke first," Harriet said, shaking his head.

Liselotte raised a brow. "Broke?"

"We forgot to collect our reward," Geschicht explained.

Uwe huffed a short laugh. "You nearly got yourself killed, and that's what's on your mind?"

"What else am I supposed to do?" Harriet countered. "Starve?"

Liselotte sighed, shutting her notebook. "Well, at least you're in one piece. That healing of yours was unnatural."

Harriet shrugged. "I'm just lucky, I guess."

Uwe eyed him for a moment before speaking. "Jelle's inside. She's been questioning the prisoners since morning."

"Any progress?" Geschicht asked.

Liselotte shook her head. "Not much. Most of them are still in shock after everything. And those who can talk refuse to say anything useful."

"That's a shame," Harriet muttered, glancing toward the heavy prison doors.

Uwe stretched his arms. "So, you here for the reward or just checking in?"

"Both," Geschicht admitted. "But mostly the reward."

Uwe smirked. "Well then, let's not waste time."

With that, they pushed open the prison doors and stepped inside.

The prison's dimly lit corridors stretched long and unwelcoming, the air thick with the staleness of stone and iron. The echoes of their footsteps bounced against the cold walls as Geschicht and Harriet made their way deeper into the heart of the facility. The flickering torches barely illuminated their path, casting long, wavering shadows across the cells.

Finally, they reached the very last section—the high-security cells meant for the most dangerous captives. Here, the air felt heavier.

Inside one of the reinforced cells sat Veynor, bound in every conceivable way. Shackles clamped onto his wrists, ankles, and neck, chains wrapped tight around his torso, keeping him completely immobile. Despite his situation, his sharp eyes still glinted with defiance, though exhaustion was evident in his expression. Across from him, Hauke stood with his usual imposing presence, arms crossed, while Jelle leaned against the bars, tapping her wooden sword against her shoulder as if waiting for something.

A few cells down, Adrek lay slumped against the wall, his breathing heavy and ragged. He was barely recognizable—his four severed arms and missing left leg made sure of that. The bloody bandages wrapped around his stumps were fresh, but the damage had already been done. His head hung low, but there was no mistaking the seething hatred in his eyes when he glanced up at them.

Yet, in stark contrast to the two restrained men, Lucienne Flux sat in her cell completely unbound. There were no chains, no bindings—just her, sitting on the wooden bench behind the iron bars, her sharp green eyes calmly watching the scene unfold. She looked utterly unbothered, as if she had chosen to be here rather than being locked away by force. When she noticed Harriet and Geschicht arrive, a small smirk played at her lips.

Jelle was the first to notice them. She turned, offering a short nod. "Took you long enough."

Harriet's eyes flickered between the three captives. "So... how's this going?"

Hauke exhaled through his nose. "Slow."

Jelle tapped the bars lightly with her sword. "Veynor's stubborn. Adrek's too pissed off to talk. And Lucienne…" She cast a glance at the unrestrained woman. "…hasn't said a single word worth noting."

Harriet exhaled as he lowered himself to the cold stone floor, sitting cross-legged just outside Lucienne's cell. The iron bars cast long, thin shadows across his face as he gazed at the woman within. Lucienne remained where she was, her posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers idly tapping against her knee.

"Lucienne," Harriet began, his voice steady, "I heard from Liselotte that you are Miss Barbel's sister." He watched for a reaction, but Lucienne gave none. Her green eyes remained fixed on him, patient. He continued, "I'm sure it must be hard to lose everything. I saw what drove you down this path."

Lucienne let out a slow breath, tilting her head slightly, as if considering his words. Then, she chuckled—not out of amusement, but something closer to resignation.

"Hard?" she repeated, rolling the word over in her mouth as if tasting it. "It was, once. When I still thought there was something to hold onto." She turned her gaze upward, staring past the ceiling, looking at something beyond this place. "But grief, if you let it linger, only serves to weigh you down. In the end, you either let it consume you or you let it pass through you."

Her eyes flicked back to him, sharp yet not unkind. "I made my choice."

Harriet studied her, searching for something in her expression—anger, regret, even sadness. But there was none. She was… at peace.

"Even after everything?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Lucienne gave a slow nod. "Even after everything."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The distant sounds of the prison—muffled voices, the occasional clang of chains—filled the space between them. Then, Lucienne leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.

"You want to know if I regret it, don't you?"

Harriet didn't answer immediately, but the look in his eyes said enough.

Lucienne exhaled through her nose, almost amused. "Regret is a strange thing. It lingers, whispers in your ear, but it doesn't change what's already been done. Barbel made her choice. I made mine. And now, here we are." She gestured lightly to the cell around her. "Fitting, isn't it?"

Harriet frowned. "You talk like you've already accepted everything. Like you're just… done."

Lucienne's lips curved upward, just slightly. "Maybe I am."

Harriet held her gaze. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back against the bars. "I don't get it," he admitted. "If it were me, I don't think I could ever let go like that."

Lucienne hummed. "Maybe one day, you will."

Something about the way she said it made Harriet feel strangely unsettled. Like she had seen something he hadn't yet. Like she understood something he still couldn't grasp.

But before he could press further, Lucienne let out a breath, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. "Now, unless you have more questions to waste on me, I'd rather enjoy the quiet while I still can."

Harriet studied her for a moment longer, then gave a small shake of his head. "You're a strange one, Lucienne."

She smirked without opening her eyes. "Takes one to know one."

Harriet let out a slow breath, pushing himself to his feet as he studied Lucienne for a moment longer. She had already leaned her head back against the cold stone wall, eyes closed, as if retreating into her own world. Whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, she was keeping them to herself.

Harriet turned away, stepping past the rows of iron bars until he reached where Jelle stood, arms crossed, observing the situation with her usual composed demeanor. Hauke stood nearby, arms resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, his expression neutral but watchful.

"Jelle," Harriet began, brushing the dust from his sleeves, "about the reward money..."

Jelle glanced at him, then at Hauke. Without hesitation, she gave a small nod. "Hauke, hand it over."

Hauke wordlessly reached into his coat, pulling out a heavy leather pouch before tossing it toward Harriet. The weight of it nearly made him fumble as he caught it against his chest. The sheer heft alone told him it was no small sum.

Jelle smirked. "That's two hundred thousand Doh."

Harriet blinked. "Wait, what?" He quickly untied the pouch and peeked inside. Sure enough, the gleam of gold coins shone back at him. He whistled. "I expected something, but this is..."

"More than you thought?" Jelle finished with a knowing smile.

"Way more." Harriet shut the pouch and hoisted it over his shoulder. "Not that I'm complaining, but why so much? Weren't we just supposed to explore some ruins?"

Jelle exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Normally, an expedition of this nature wouldn't yield such a high reward. But circumstances changed." She gestured vaguely toward the cells. "We captured three Proximal Phalax and killed a Middle Phalax. That alone would make any reward skyrocket. The Ident Order doesn't ignore those kinds of feats."

Harriet frowned. "So, the difference between a Proximal Phalax and a Middle Phalax... how big is it?"

Jelle snorted. "Night and day."

Hauke, who had remained silent until now, let out a chuckle. "To put it bluntly, Proximal Phalax are dangerous, but they're still manageable. Middle Phalax? That's another story. Killing one isn't something most people can pull off. It's a level of threat that normally takes an entire squad to deal with."

Harriet glanced down at the pouch in his hands, weighing the meaning behind the reward. "So, in other words, we got paid this much because we did something we weren't supposed to be able to do?"

Jelle grinned. "Exactly."

Harriet let out a dry laugh. "Well, when you put it like that, I almost feel like I should ask for more."

Jelle shook her head, amused. "Don't push your luck."

Harriet smirked but didn't press the matter further. Instead, he turned to Geschicht, who had been standing quietly beside him. "Guess we don't have to worry about being broke anymore."

Geschicht nodded. "Yeah, but knowing you, I doubt it'll last long."

Harriet raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Geschicht only gave him a knowing look. Harriet sighed, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. Let's go buy some flowers."

Jelle watched them with an amused expression as they turned to leave. "Try not to spend it all in one place."

"No promises," Harriet called back over his shoulder.

Harriet and Geschicht stepped out of the prison, the weight of the gold heavier in their minds than in their hands. Without much discussion, they split the reward money evenly—one hundred thousand Doh each. Geschicht tucked his share away with care, while Harriet simply slung his pouch over his shoulder as if it were just another bag of supplies.

With that settled, they made their way back through the streets of Dämmerburg. The city was still in the process of mending itself—workers repaired shattered windows, reinforced weakened walls, and filled in the cracks along the cobbled streets. The scent of sawdust and fresh mortar mingled in the air, carried by the sound of hammers striking wood and stone.

As they passed by a small flower shop, Harriet suddenly stopped. His eyes lingered on the neatly arranged bouquets displayed outside the shop.

"I'll catch up," he said, already stepping toward the store.

Geschicht raised a brow. "Huh?"

"I need to do something first," Harriet replied without looking back.

Geschicht watched him for a moment before sighing. "Alright, don't take too long."

Harriet entered the shop, his eyes scanning over the flowers until they landed on a bundle of white lilies. He reached out, picking them up carefully.

The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with soft, knowing eyes, smiled as she approached. "A beautiful choice," she said. "White lilies carry many meanings—purity, peace, remembrance."

Harriet nodded, placing the necessary coins on the counter. "They're for someone important."

The woman gave a gentle nod, wrapping the flowers with practiced hands before handing them to him. "Then I hope they reach her well."

With the bouquet in hand, Harriet stepped out of the shop and made his way toward Barbel's grave.

It was a quiet place, shaded by an old oak tree. The soil was still fresh, a stark reminder of how little time had passed since she had been laid to rest. Kneeling down, Harriet placed the lilies carefully before the grave.

For a while, he simply stood there, letting the wind carry his silence. Then, suddenly, an idea struck Harriet. He turned sharply on his heel.

"I'll be along soon," he said.

Geschicht blinked. "What? Where are you going?"

But Harriet was already sprinting down the street.

His destination was clear—Kindnest Orphanage.

It was a modest place, nestled between two larger buildings, its worn wooden doors creaking slightly in the breeze. The sight of it made something in Harriet's chest tighten. Without hesitation, he strode up to the small donation box sitting near the entrance.

He untied the pouch of gold from his belt, weighing it in his hands for a moment. One hundred thousand Doh. Enough to keep the orphanage running for years.

Slowly, he slipped the pouch into the box.

Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a small folded letter. With careful hands, he placed it on top of the pouch, making sure it wouldn't be overlooked.

The letter was simple, written in his slightly messy but determined handwriting.

"From Miss Flux."

Harriet took a step back, exhaling as he stared at the donation box.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

He reached the inn, pushing open the heavy wooden door with a slow creak. The warmth of the hearth inside met him like a gentle embrace, flickering light casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of worn wood and faint traces of roasted meat still clung to the air, though the common room was mostly empty at this hour. Harriet paid little mind to his surroundings as he made his way up the narrow staircase, the steps groaning under his weight.

His room was as they had left it—simple, unadorned, a pair of beds pressed against opposite walls with a single wooden desk in between. The moonlight filtering through the window stretched across the floor, pale and soft. Harriet exhaled, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck before moving toward his bed, sinking onto the mattress without a word.

And in the silence, something small drifted through the open window—a firefly, its glow pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

It floated soundlessly through the air, golden light flickering, before coming to rest on the pages of Geschicht's open journal. The tiny insect moved as if drawn to something unseen, its delicate legs brushing against inked words and half-formed thoughts. The glow reflected off the paper, illuminating sketches, notes, and fragments of sentences that only Geschicht himself would understand.

And then, just as gently as it had arrived, the firefly's glow dimmed, nestling within the pages as if it belonged there.

Harriet remained unaware, eyes closed, lost in thought. The room remained still, save for the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the faint rustling of the wind outside.

And the firefly, resting within the journal, pulsed once more.