The old man didn't keep Asef with chains, spells, or threats.
He kept him with something much stronger.
Hospitality.
And strangely, Asef didn't want to leave.
Not because he had changed. Not really.
It still didn't matter to him whether he was under a roof or under the stars. A warm bed or a cold patch of dirt—both felt the same.
But something had shifted.
He couldn't say what it was.
Maybe it was just instinct, the base survival sense whispering that this place was safe. That he could live here. Rest here. Eat, sleep, breathe—without pain.
He didn't know.
But he stayed.
And after a few days, something else changed.
For some reason, Asef could talk.
Not perfectly. Not fluently. His voice was still rough, like a blade that hadn't seen a whetstone in years.
But he didn't.
He just thanked the old man.
Every time he ate, every time he woke up and saw Hon, the old man, already sitting there, waiting quietly.
Just those two words. But they were enough.
