"What brings you to Costen?" he asked, his tone sharp, almost accusing.
"I came to cross over, purchase merchant goods, and return," I replied firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"So… you're a merchant?" His eyebrow arched, doubtful.
I tipped my chin and gestured toward the brass badge pinned neatly to my chest—a badge denoting five years of merchant experience, polished until it gleamed under the sun.
The guard scrutinized it for a moment, then slowly nodded, stepping aside. "All right. Pass through."
A cold smile tugged at my lips as I walked past him, the sound of my boots echoing against the stone roadway.
The port city was subdued, far quieter than the bustling center where the Society headquarters thrived. Here, the air was less frantic, tinged with brine and faint smoke from distant workshops. Men hauled crates toward the warehouses, women carried baskets balanced on their hips, children darted between vendor stalls, their laughter brief and fleeting.
I scanned every face I passed, my eyes searching, hoping, hungry for a glimpse of one person. Each passerby drew my gaze for a heartbeat before I moved on, the longing in my chest tightening with every step.
I had come here with a purpose: to cross into the neighboring city and visit the orphanage, to check on the children the Society had rescued. But there was another reason—one I could no longer bury under duty.
It had been seven long months since she left, seven months since I had last seen her face or heard her voice.
Hannah…
Her name pulsed through me like a prayer as I walked on, my stride slow but deliberate, every step weighted with anticipation and resolve.
And that was when I saw it—the faded blue emblem of the refugee center, painted onto a weathered wooden sign at the edge of the district.
My pulse quickened, a tight rhythm against my ribs, as I stepped past the sign and into the refugee zone.
If Hannah and her family hadn't moved away, she had to be here.
The area stretched endlessly, rows upon rows of makeshift houses cobbled together from corrugated metal and wood. The air smelled of dust and distant cooking fires, and voices rose from every corner—children laughing, adults calling out in clipped tones, someone hammering in the distance. The place was alive, but overwhelmingly so.
I walked, weaving through narrow pathways between the clusters of homes. Every corner I turned revealed more people, more faces. Men carried bundles of firewood, women lugged water buckets, teenagers dashed past on errands. But none of them were her.
How am I supposed to find Hannah in all of this…?
The thought hung heavy in my chest as I slowed, unsure of where to turn next.
Then—a light touch on my shoulder.
I spun around, startled.
A woman stood there, wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a neatly cut uniform jacket. She looked to be in her thirties, her expression warm and professional, a small clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Excuse me," she said gently. "Are you new to our refugee center?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"Yes… I just arrived."
"Are you looking for your family?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes scanning my face for clues.
I paused, feeling the word 'family' catch in my throat before I shook my head. "…No. I'm looking for… a friend."
Her smile softened with understanding.
"I see. I'm a staff member here. I can help you. What's your friend's name?"
Just then, the midday sun broke free from a passing cloud, blazing down on the open yard. Both of us squinted instinctively, shielding our eyes from the harsh light.
"Hannah," I said quickly, my voice more urgent than I intended. "If she's here, she's probably with her family."
The woman blinked, her eyes widening in surprise under the glare of sunlight.
"Hannah? The only Hannah I know in this center is the one with two older brothers."
My heart jolted, beating faster, hope surging through me.
"Right. That's her."
But the woman's expression faltered, her brows knitting together as if she already regretted what she had to say next.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, "but Hannah and her family… they have already moved out of this refugee center."
A sharp pang of disappointment struck me like a stone to the chest.
She's gone…
The realization spread through me, heavy and suffocating, yet I forced it down, masking it with a practiced calm.
"Do you know where she went?" I asked, my voice steady, though it carried a faint edge of desperation I couldn't quite hide.
The woman before me tilted her head slightly, thoughtful, strands of hair brushing against her cheek.
"Well," she began slowly, "from what I remember, Hannah's brother, Blen, mentioned they were heading toward the school district… teaching children who can't attend school because of the war. There are quite a few schools near Costen, though, so I can't say exactly which one."
"I see…" The words left my lips in a low murmur, barely audible.
I hadn't expected Hannah to still be here—it was foolish, really—but hearing she had ventured out with her family, dedicating herself to teaching, brought an unexpected wave of relief. She wasn't lost or broken. She was… living. Thriving, even.
"But if you really want to contact her, I can help." The woman's voice softened, warm with kindness. "I have a list of school addresses. You might want to check them yourself."
I hesitated, caught in the snare of my own thoughts.
What if Hannah had moved on completely? What if she'd rebuilt her life, surrounded by laughter and warmth, and no longer needed to remember me at all?
The woman studied me for a moment, then nodded firmly, as if making a silent decision.
"Wait here a moment."
She jogged toward a tent that bore the marks of an administrative post, its canvas walls rippling in the wind.
Moments later, she emerged with a weathered notebook in her hands, its edges frayed, the cover scarred from years of use. She held it out to me.
"Here. These are four school addresses near Costen. If Hannah's teaching, she's likely to be one of them."
I reached out and took the notebook, my fingers brushing its worn surface as if it were something far more fragile, far more precious.
The notebook was old—its corners frayed, its cover warped from years of handling. There were faint burn marks near the edges, as if it had survived some hurried escape or a night too close to a campfire. I held it gently, almost reverently, as though it were a fragile key that could unlock the path back to Hannah.
"So… you're like Hannah's friend?" the woman asked, her curious eyes lingering on me as I stared at the notebook, tracing every crease and blemish as if it might whisper answers.
I slowly lifted my gaze to meet hers. Friend?
How could I even define what we were? She was nearly ten years younger than me. Could I call her a younger sister? A girl I was simply… close to?
The truth was, even after all the time we'd spent together, I wouldn't say we were close. Not the way she was with Angela, whose laughter always came easy around Hannah.
My own feelings had built a quiet wall between us—a barrier I never dared cross for fear of shattering the fragile balance of our interactions. Hannah, too, seemed to keep a gentle distance, her warmth toward me slightly more reserved than the easy friendliness she showed everyone else.
But now, holding that thought—and this worn notebook—a sudden, unsettling possibility struck me. What if Hannah had felt something too?
The thought made my pulse quicken, drumming through my veins like an echo of something long buried.
"Not exactly friends," I answered, choosing my words carefully. "But there's a very clear reason I'm looking for her."
Even as I said it, I surprised myself. I was usually meticulous with words, thinking three steps ahead before speaking. Yet these words slipped past all filters, raw and unvarnished, straight from my heart.
Yes. I needed to see her. Even if she had changed. Even if she had moved on. I needed to see her one more time.
I tightened my grip on the notebook, giving the woman a small, courteous nod.
"Thank you for your help," I said, my voice quieter now, steadier, but carrying a weight I hadn't expected.
She gave me a warm, kind smile, her voice soft yet filled with sincerity.
"Hope you have good luck," she said gently. "I hope you find her… and accomplish whatever reason brought you here."
Her words lingered in my mind long after I left, the old, burned-edged notebook still firm in my grasp like a fragile promise.
Days blurred together as I traveled from one school to another, weaving through streets scarred by war yet stubbornly alive with the laughter of children and the determination of teachers. Every time I stepped onto a schoolyard and didn't see her face, the weight in my chest grew heavier. By the seventh day, only one address remained—the final chance.
If she isn't here… I thought, then maybe she's truly beyond my reach.
The last school was framed by tall, sprawling trees, their branches like open arms, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across lush green grass. The air smelled faintly of earth and chalk. Children's voices rang out in joyful chorus from a nearby playground, pure and unbroken by the chaos of the world outside these grounds.
And then—time froze.
There she was.
Hannah.