She sat on a weathered bench beneath one of the trees, her posture calm, her gaze fixed on the children playing before her. There was a stillness in her expression, thoughtful, almost distant, as if she carried a piece of another world in her mind.
My breath caught, and my heart stuttered painfully in my chest. For a moment, I couldn't move. I couldn't believe she was real and here, right in front of me.
Then my feet carried me forward, one step, then another, slow and uncertain, until I crossed into her line of sight.
Her head lifted, eyes meeting mine.
For a second—an endless, fragile second—her eyes widened, holding mine as though time itself dared not move between us.
Then she rose to her feet, the hint of surprise giving way to something warmer.
"June?" she said, her voice clear as a bell, carrying across the quiet space between us.
And then—she smiled.
Her smile… it was like sunlight breaking through after days of storm.
The moment her lips curved, my heart lifted, bright and warm, as if something dormant inside me had awakened. Seeing her up close—those familiar features, that light in her eyes—made my pulse race uncontrollably. It felt as though God Himself had guided my steps here, to this very moment.
I ran a nervous hand through my hair, trying to steady myself.
"How've you been?" I asked, my voice lighter than I felt, masking the pounding in my chest.
Hannah's smile deepened, her eyes softening in a way that caught me off guard.
"I've been doing well, staying with my family," she said warmly. Then, tilting her head, curiosity danced across her face. "And how did you end up here?"
I met her gaze, and my heartbeat only quickened.
I came here to see you.
The words pressed against my tongue, begging to be spoken, yet I couldn't force them out.
"Well… I…" I stammered, feeling heat creep up my neck.
She chuckled, a light sound, and her eyes sparkled with playful understanding.
As if to rescue me from my own awkwardness, she gestured toward the building behind her.
"This is the school where I work now. I'm guessing someone at the refugee center told you about it?"
I followed her gesture and saw it—a sturdy old brick structure, weathered but proud.
"It wasn't a school before," she explained, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "The original school collapsed when the war broke out, so… we turned this one into a school instead."
Her words carried no bitterness, only a quiet resilience.
Then she turned back to me, her eyes locking with mine, and smiled again—this time more gently, almost knowingly.
"I wondered how you were doing… and it's good to see you looking well. As always."
For a moment, I could only stare at her.
Seven months had passed since I last saw Hannah, and yet she had changed. There was a strength in her now, something steady and resolute that hadn't been there before.
And her eyes—those eyes glowed beneath the summer sunlight, framed by the vivid green of the trees swaying behind her. They were even brighter than I remembered, carrying both kindness and something deeper, something I couldn't quite name.
I first met her in the stark, bitter cold of winter—a day when the wind cut through skin like knives and the sky hung heavy with gray clouds. She had been captured by soldiers then, her wrists bound, her eyes wide yet strangely quiet, as though holding back a flood of tears that refused to fall. I still remembered the way her lips trembled, the way she carried her sorrow like a heavy cloak, trying so desperately to suppress it.
And now… here she was.
Standing in front of me, no longer fragile or broken, but firm, steady—smiling. That same girl who once looked like she might shatter with one more harsh word now radiated a strength I had never seen before.
I wanted to ask her.
Did you miss me?
Because I had missed her. Missed her so much it ached in places I didn't know existed. I wanted, more than anything, to hear her say she had thought of me too, even once, even for a fleeting moment.
But as I watched her lips curve into that slight, soft smile, I felt something else.
I didn't need to ask.
Somewhere in that gentle expression, in the way her eyes lingered on me just a moment longer, I felt it—like a quiet whisper between our hearts.
Maybe… she had been waiting for me too.
The warm scent of simmering stews and freshly steamed meats filled the cozy home, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. I sat at Hannah's family's round dining table, surrounded by people who shared her features—the same gentle eyes, the same warm smile. Hannah's parents, her two older brothers, and her grandmother all gathered close, their chatter filling the room as the dishes kept coming: fragrant noodles, marinated meats glistening with steam, and a variety of side dishes that painted the table in color.
"You didn't have to go through all this trouble for me," I said, almost sheepishly, as I looked at the abundance before me. My voice held both gratitude and guilt.
Hannah's mother smiled from across the table, her hands still busy arranging the last dish. "It's not often we have guests these days. You deserve a warm welcome, especially someone who came because of our Hannah."
Her father's eyes lingered on me for a moment, studying me, before he chuckled and said, "So you're the one who rescued my daughter from the soldiers and brought her safely to that Society of yours. We've heard all about you."
Hannah gave a small laugh and turned her gaze toward me.
Our eyes met.
"He came all the way here to find me, I guess. Right?" she said, her lips curving into a mischievous smile.
The boldness in her tone startled me, but in a way that warmed me deeply. Seven months ago, she would have never teased me like this. Seven months ago, she had been quiet, her sadness locked behind guarded eyes. But now, there was something different—stronger, brighter—and I found myself quietly admiring it.
I smiled back, faint but genuine, though my heart was beating faster than I cared to admit. She knew. Somehow, she always knew how I felt, and that scared me a little—yet I liked it. I wanted to match her courage, to say what had long been on my chest, but the words never came easily.
"So you're still doing those rescue missions with your Society?" Hannah's grandmother asked, leaning forward slightly, curiosity shining in her eyes.
"Yes," I replied with a firm nod. "That's my work."
Her mother clasped her hands together, smiling proudly. "That's wonderful—so brave of you. When's your next mission?"
I hesitated, glancing at Hannah, then at her family's expectant faces.
"Well… it's undecided for now," I admitted.
"Undecided?" Hannah repeated, tilting her head slightly. Her tone was soft but surprised, as though she was reading into something deeper behind my answer.
"Yeah… it's because the next mission is a big one," I explained, my fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of my plate. "It's at the female prison camp—the one holding captives from the war. All of the women in our Society are going. The men are supporting, but…" I hesitated, glancing at Hannah, "…we can't engage in the core of the mission. We're not allowed to enter."
Hannah's expression shifted, her smile faltering into something more solemn. A flicker of worry crossed her face, like a quiet storm passing over clear skies.
Did I say something wrong? Did I pressure her somehow?
The conversation drifted back to lighter topics, but a part of me stayed anchored to that worried look. Still, the warmth of her family wrapped around me—welcoming words, laughter that echoed against the walls, the aroma of food filling the house. It had been so long since I felt this: a family table, easy conversation, people simply glad to be together. Something in my chest ached, realizing how much I'd missed it.
Later that night, after the dishes were washed and the house had gone quiet, Hannah and I climbed to the rooftop. The view opened up to the wide, rural stretch of Costen City, its scattered lights flickering like fireflies in the distance.
A cool summer breeze brushed past us, carrying the scent of grass and earth. The crickets sang their endless chorus, and the trees whispered softly as the wind threaded through their branches.
"The stars here… they're so much brighter," Hannah said with a small, wistful smile. She leaned against the rooftop rail, resting her arms lightly on it as she tilted her head back to gaze at the sky.
I turned toward her and, almost unwillingly, met her eyes when she looked at me. In the pale moonlight, her eyes seemed larger, luminous—like they had trapped starlight in them. My chest tightened, and I could hear my own heartbeat pounding louder than the summer insects around us, as if the night itself were leaning in to listen.
"So… you're going back tomorrow morning," she said quietly, nodding slightly as if confirming the fact to herself.