Chapter 25: The Weight of an Unspoken Goodbye

The sky had cleared by the afternoon, leaving behind the soft warmth of the sun breaking through scattered clouds. The fields stretched endlessly, damp earth glistening where the rain had touched. The world smelled fresh—like renewal, like something old had been washed away, leaving space for whatever came next.

Eleanor didn't know what that was yet.

She sat on the stone wall at the edge of Braemar, her fingers tracing patterns against the rough surface. From here, she could see the hills rolling into the horizon, the wind stirring the grass in restless waves. It was a view she had known forever, but today, it felt different.

Like she was seeing it for the last time.

She hadn't told Callum she was leaving. Not yet.

She had meant to—really, she had—but every time she looked at him, the words caught in her throat. Because saying it out loud would make it real. And she wasn't ready for that.

Not yet.

Footsteps crunched against the gravel path behind her. She didn't turn. She already knew who it was.

"You've been quiet all day," Callum said, his voice steady, careful.

Eleanor exhaled softly. "Just thinking."

"That's dangerous."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "So I've been told."

Callum moved to stand beside her, leaning against the wall. For a while, neither of them spoke. It was easy, this silence between them. It always had been. But today, it felt heavier. Like it was holding something neither of them wanted to say.

Finally, he sighed. "When were you going to tell me?"

Eleanor stiffened. "Tell you what?"

He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. "That you're leaving."

Her throat tightened. "Who told you?"

Callum huffed out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "You did." He gestured toward her, toward the way her fingers kept clenching around the fabric of her dress, the way her shoulders were tense. "You've been telling me all week. You just didn't say the words."

Eleanor swallowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly. "I was going to tell you."

"When?"

"Now," she admitted.

Callum nodded, glancing back toward the hills. "I figured it was coming."

She frowned. "You're not mad?"

He let out a slow breath. "No, Eleanor. I'm not mad." He turned back to her, his expression softer now. "I just wish you weren't running again."

She flinched at that. "I'm not—"

"You are." His voice was gentle but firm. "You always do when things get hard."

Eleanor wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this time was different. But the truth sat heavy on her chest, refusing to let her lie.

Because he was right.

She had spent her whole life running—from responsibility, from emotions, from the weight of things she didn't know how to carry. And now, she was doing it again.

Callum didn't press her, didn't ask her to stay. Maybe he knew it wouldn't make a difference. Maybe he knew this was something she had to figure out for herself.

But before she could say anything, he spoke again.

"You'll come back." It wasn't a question.

Eleanor hesitated. "I don't know."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "You will."

Something about the certainty in his voice made her chest ache.

Because a part of her wanted to believe him.

The wind picked up, rustling the grass, carrying the scent of rain and earth through the air. Eleanor let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening against the stone beneath her.

"Goodbye, Callum."

His lips pressed into a thin line. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

"Goodbye, Eleanor."

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving behind the only place that had ever felt like home.

For now.