Chapter Forty-One
Moments That Echo
fromHave You Someone to Protect?
by ©Amer
The steam from the tea had cooled. Shadows in the bookshop shifted softly with the weight of the hour, neither heavy nor light—just real. Lhady sat still, cup cradled in her hands, and Silas mirrored her silence from the other side of the low table.
Then—unexpectedly, almost absurdly—they both said the same thing.
"I just want to…"
It hung in the air like a note struck twice on a string.
Lhady blinked, surprised. A small, helpless giggle broke free from her, though she tried to catch it. Almost as quickly, she straightened her face again, her expression returning to the cool composure she'd worn since opening the door.
Silas smiled faintly, deeply, like the warmth of an old fire rekindling somewhere quiet inside him.
She arched a brow at him—just slightly, an unspoken nudge.
Go on.
Silas inhaled slowly, voice catching as he began, "It's… been a long time." He met her gaze, soft and unhurried. "I only wanted to ask how you've been."
His words reached deeper than they seemed. Neither of them mentioned the river. But it was there—beneath every syllable, between the silence and the steep memory of cold water and pale hands.
Lhady nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
"I'm fine," she said.
Then, more tenderly, her eyes lifted to his.
"Thank you."
A beat passed. Then she added, "For being there. That midday. For saving me. Even when… maybe you shouldn't have been."
It hit him like light through old glass.
The warmth of her voice, the gentle scolding tucked inside her gratitude—it was so distinctly her. He'd missed that sound more than anything.
Silas laughed softly, voice low. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to be."
She didn't answer.
He cleared his throat. "I was actually going to the bookshop that morning."
Lhady narrowed her eyes, mock-suspicious. "To borrow a book?"
"Yes," he said, a little too defensively.
"Silas reading. That's… new."
"I read," he insisted. "I've found it's not a bad way to pass time when things go quiet."
"I'll believe that when I see you finish something thicker than a folktale."
Silas laughed. "That's fair. But I'd still like to borrow something sometime."
"Then you can come here anytime," Lhady said lightly, gesturing with a vague sweep of her hand. "This is a bookshop, after all."
"So I'm allowed?"
"Only if you return them on time," she said, eyes glinting briefly with dry humor.
Silas grinned, and his shoulders eased. "Thank you." It wasn't just gratitude for the books.
The light between them shifted—not brighter, not dimmer, but warmer.
Silence returned, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It rested with them like a shared blanket.
Lhady turned slightly toward the window, watching the dark deepen beyond the panes. She hadn't touched her tea. Silas, instead of drinking, simply watched her.
After a long moment, he broke the quiet.
"This place…" he said softly. "It still smells the same."
Lhady blinked at the comment, then glanced around. "Paper, ink, wood, dust. That's what makes up this place. And time, I suppose."
"And you."
She looked at him.
"You're part of the smell of this house too. The sound of it."
Lhady smiled faintly, almost apologetically. "Thorne used to say the same thing. When I was small. Said the house had to adjust to my voice."
Silas chuckled. "It never needed to. You were always this place's echo."
She didn't answer. But her silence held meaning.
The conversation slipped into silence again—not sharp or awkward, but gentle. The kind that settled into the walls like old music, or a memory that no longer hurts the same.
Lhady turned her gaze toward the window, the sky now nearly black. The last hues of twilight had retreated, leaving only the faint shimmer of stars.
Silas watched her quietly, unable to look away.
After a moment, he spoke, reluctantly. "I should go. It's getting late."
She didn't turn back. "I won't stop you."
From somewhere within the house, Elias shifted. His footfalls were nearly silent, but the floor creaked slightly under his weight—just enough for Silas to know he'd been nearby the whole time.
A moment later, Elias's voice floated in dryly from the hallway, "Goodnight, Silas."
Silas chuckled under his breath. "Goodnight, Elias."
Lhady stood and walked him to the door, slow and unhurried.
They faced each other for a brief, quiet moment at the threshold.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye."
The door closed with a soft click.
Silas stepped out into the dark street. The night air greeted him cool and clear, the kind that reminded him of things he didn't want to remember. He took only a few steps when—
"Silas."
Her voice.
He froze, heart stammering unexpectedly. He turned slowly.
She stood just outside the now half-open door, arms crossed loosely over her chest.
He waited, not daring to hope.
"When you last saw him…" she began, eyes searching his face. "Did Caelum look… alright?"
There was no bitterness in her voice. No accusation. Only… concern.
And that was enough to make Silas ache.
"Yes," he said, the lie lodged deep in his throat. But it came out gently. "He looked fine. Malric told me he came to the inn while I was away. He seemed… steady."
Lhady didn't speak right away. She nodded once.
"Thank you," she said. Then softer, "Take care."
Silas nodded in return. "You too."
He turned once more and walked down the path. The road felt longer now, though it hadn't changed.
His footsteps echoed in the silence.
He thought of her laugh. Her voice. The way her eyes always drifted toward windows and not toward him.
He had thought—for a fleeting second—that maybe he'd had a moment with her.
But as he reached the corner and placed a hand to his chest, he realized:
He had been fooling himself.
Because even as she spoke to him… She hadn't stopped thinking of someone else.
The door clicked shut with a finality that didn't echo. Lhady stood still, her hand still on the wood, eyes unfocused.
Behind her, the room seemed quieter than it had moments ago—emptied of a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.
She felt him before he spoke.
"You called his name."
Elias's voice came gently, from the edge of the hallway, just beyond the golden spill of lamplight.
Lhady turned toward him, not startled. She had known he hadn't gone far.
"I did," she said simply, walking back toward the low table to collect the tray of now-cold tea.
Elias leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Didn't expect that."
Lhady glanced at him, then down at the flower-shaped handle of the teapot.
"I didn't either."
Elias waited, not filling the silence. That was something he did well—waiting for her to want to speak.
She lifted the tray with care, but didn't head toward the kitchen just yet. "He… asked how I was."
"That's harmless," Elias said, watching her. "Polite."
"I thanked him."
He raised an eyebrow. "For the river?"
Lhady nodded.
"You didn't need to."
"Maybe not," she replied, "but I meant it."
Elias didn't argue.
She moved to set the tray down on the sideboard, then turned to face him, arms crossing her chest like she was hugging a thought close.
"It was strange."
"Seeing him again?"
"No," she said, shaking her head slightly. "Feeling like… the house remembered him."
Elias tilted his head.
"He looked around like he belonged. Like nothing changed."
"Maybe nothing has," Elias said softly. Then, after a pause, "Or maybe memory is just more forgiving than we think."
Lhady met his eyes then, steady and clear. "I know you know many things more than it seems, Elias." "So you know what was between us."
For the first time, Elias didn't quip or dodge. He simply held her gaze with a quiet nod.
"I do."
Elias finally broke the silence again.
"You miss him?"
Lhady closed her eyes for a beat.
"I miss… who we were. But sometimes… memory is gentler than the truth."
He nodded slowly. Respectfully.
Then, with a breath lighter than the moment required, he added, "Still, for someone who doesn't want him back, you let him in—and made tea."
Lhady rolled her eyes, half-exasperated. "Do you ever stop?"
Elias smiled.
"I stop when I'm worried." He paused. "I'm not worried right now."
Lhady tilted her head, curious. "Why?"
He gave her a look both solemn and sly. "Because I know who you'll keep the door open for… without him needing to knock."
Her smile faltered. Then vanished.
Elias didn't press. He just turned to leave.
"I'll be upstairs," he said. Then glanced back, voice softer, "If you need someone to talk to—about what you don't want to say out loud."
Lhady didn't answer.
When he was gone, she moved to the window, fingertips resting lightly against the cold glass. Her gaze lingered on the figure retreating down the path— The boy this house still remembered. But her heart was waiting for someone else. The one it had always remembered.
Outside, Solara held its breath. Inside, her heartbeat remembered his name.