Morning crept in like a thief — soft, grey, and guilty. The dew on the glass shimmered faintly, and the world outside Grace Manor exhaled fog into the quiet hills. But inside the house, the air remained still, like everything had paused the moment Evenlyn fell.
Vivienne did not sleep.
She sat in the narrow hallway outside her daughter's room, her silk robe damp with anxiety, her eyes tracing the cracks in the marble floor. Occasionally, she would glance toward the closed door. Once or twice, she reached for the knob but never turned it. There were no words left to say — not ones that wouldn't break her more.
Downstairs, Gideon had already left for Windmere. The day's meeting, rescheduled after the chaos of the evening before, was set to begin. He hadn't said a word to her before leaving. Not about Evenlyn. Not about anything.
But Vivienne didn't care anymore. She remained, waiting.
The doctor returned just after sunrise. His coat was wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, but his voice held the same calm authority as before. Vivienne pulled him into the sitting room, away from Evenlyn's door.
"I don't understand," she said again. "She's been blind since she was five. That was all. There were no other symptoms. No pain. No signs."
The doctor shook his head. "Her blindness wasn't the end. It was the beginning. What she's suffering from is… complex. Degenerative. Quiet for years, then suddenly—" He snapped his fingers. "—progression."
Vivienne's voice trembled. "How much time do we have?"
"She can still walk. Speak. But the nerves are unraveling. If we don't operate soon…"
"She'll die?"
He hesitated. "Or worse. It could attack the brain. Seizures. Memory collapse. Paralysis. If it spreads further, we won't be able to stop it."
Vivienne turned away, pressing her fingers against her lips. "Then do the surgery."
"I can't. Not here. Not with what we have. The equipment's outdated. The staff — barely enough to stitch a wound, let alone navigate her skull."
"Then where?" Her voice was sharp now.
"There's a military hospital stationed at Arkenport — east coast. They're moving troops next week by sea. I can request she be transported with them. There are specialists there. People who might know what to do."
Vivienne hesitated. "It takes two months by ship."
"She'll hold. But she'll need someone with her. She can't go alone."
Vivienne looked up. "I don't know anyone there."
The doctor softened. "Let me speak with the captain. Maybe… just maybe, someone from the Windmere post can travel with her. Or at least escort her halfway."
Vivienne nodded, though her heart said no. Letting Evenlyn out of her sight — into the hands of war, storms, strangers — was a mother's quiet kind of death.
---
At Windmere Mansion, the war room smelled of ink and iron. Maps stretched across every table. Red string looped between pins like veins on parchment. Gideon stood at the helm, barking orders, voice full of clipped impatience. Five officers surrounded him, listening, nodding, occasionally scribbling notes.
Rowen Hale stood at the edge, silent. Always the edge.
He'd been called there hours ago, along with the others: Captain Rhys, Lieutenant Malric, Commander Vale, and a fifth man Rowen hadn't met — young, smirking, with eyes that didn't belong to a soldier. The discussion was sharp, yet masked. Plans folded beneath metaphors. Names replaced with code. Rowen understood enough to know they were discussing troop relocation and supply risk.
But it wasn't the war that had his attention.
It was the absence of Vivienne.
And the lingering image of a girl who had collapsed like a fallen wing — unseen, unheard, unimportant in the eyes of her own father.
When the meeting broke, the men stepped outside for water. A faint breeze stirred the edge of Rowen's coat. He said nothing, drank nothing. Just walked to the side and let the others go.
---
He should have rested. But the mansion felt claustrophobic. So he packed light: a flask, a compass, a map folded four ways. His boots traced the dirt paths leading out toward the west quarter — a place he hadn't seen yet. He told himself it was just curiosity.
But when he turned the corner, past the old stone shed and behind the stables, he saw something… else.
Two figures crouched near the boundary hedge — whispering, giggling in hushed mischief. One of them, unmistakably, was Evenlyn Grace.
She was standing. Upright. Holding onto her friend's elbow, face tilted toward the sunlight as though pretending she could see it. Elira was drawing something in the dirt with a stick — arrows, turns, a makeshift path.
"We'll slip out through the garden gate," Elira said. "Walk past the orchard, then loop behind the lake. If we keep our heads down—"
"We'll look like ghosts," Evenlyn finished. "Blind ghost and her unpaid guide. Sounds promising."
Elira snorted. "You need fresh air."
"I need answers. But air will do for now."
Rowen didn't move. His hand rested on a nearby post, watching them without meaning to. They hadn't seen him — or sensed him. He could turn back. Give them privacy.
But something in Evenlyn's posture — the way she smiled without reason, as if holding pain like a secret treasure — made him stay.
She wasn't weak.
She wasn't broken.
She was just… surviving differently.
And suddenly, for reasons he couldn't name, he didn't want to explore the west quarter anymore.
He wanted to follow them.
Just far enough to watch. Just close enough to know.
Not to intervene.
Just to be near the girl who never asked for pity — and the war she waged with every breath.
The crunch of leaves under their boots softened as the trees thickened around them. The morning sun filtered in through crooked branches, spilling light like gold coins tossed into shadows. Elira walked ahead, guiding Evenlyn through the winding path that led beyond the orchard. The air was cooler here, tinted with pine and damp earth. They'd already visited the abandoned greenhouse and the silent bell tower that no longer rang. Two spots. And still their legs itched to keep walking.
But Evenlyn had stopped.
She held out her hand, palm flat toward the trees. Her head tilted slightly, the way one might listen for a whisper too low for the world to hear.
"Elira," she said softly. "Someone's here."
Elira glanced back, amused. "No one's here, Eve. I checked behind us after the greenhouse. We're alone."
Evenlyn didn't move. "Not alone."
Her brows furrowed, not from fear, but certainty.
"Someone's watching."
Elira shifted uncomfortably. "You sure?"
Evenlyn didn't answer. She took one step forward, then another. Her fingers brushed a nearby tree trunk, then she crouched, palm grazing the dirt. She stood again, slowly, then turned — not toward a sound, but toward a presence.
And just like that, as if pulled into the clearing by the weight of her knowing, Rowen stepped out from behind the trees.
Not like a thief caught, not like a soldier. He came quietly. Respectfully. Like he was always meant to be there.
Evenlyn straightened, and Elira took a cautious step forward. "You were following us?"
Rowen lifted his hands, palms out. "Not for harm."
"Then why?" Elira asked.
But Evenlyn was already smiling — not wide, not full, but faint, like a secret let out into the cold.
"You're new," she said.
Rowen blinked. "I am."
"Then you don't know these paths."
He hesitated. "No. I don't."
Evenlyn turned her head slightly, cloudy eyes searching where sight could not reach. "You step like someone reading a map in the dark. Careful, but not confident. You don't push branches aside — you dodge them. You're quiet, but you breathe like you're counting distance. Two steps per breath. You're new. And you didn't want to ask for help."
Rowen stared at her, startled into silence.
Elira's jaw dropped. "How in the—"
Evenlyn turned to her friend. "It's not sight that sees, Elira."
Then, to Rowen: "You could've just asked to come with us."
Rowen stepped forward, his voice low. "I didn't want to intrude."
"You did anyway," Evenlyn replied, but there was no anger in her tone. Only quiet amusement.
"I'm sorry."
She tilted her head again. "You don't sound sorry. You sound lost."
Rowen let out a breath — maybe the first real one in hours. "I guess I am."
He looked down, then back at her. "I don't belong inside that mansion. It's built of rules and rot. I came outside to breathe. To find something real."
Evenlyn's lips parted. Just slightly.
"I live in that rot," she said, voice soft. "Grace Manor isn't a home. It's a display case for people pretending to be fine."
Rowen took a step closer. "Then maybe I wasn't following you. Maybe I was just… walking beside the only other person who doesn't know how to breathe in glass rooms."
There was a pause.
Evenlyn inhaled slowly, as if his words had carved a space inside her lungs.
"I didn't expect poetry from a soldier," she said.
Rowen shrugged, half a smile forming. "I didn't expect a blind girl to find me in the forest."
They both laughed — quietly. Like it was dangerous to laugh too loud in a world that still burned on the edges.
Elira looked between them, then nudged Evenlyn. "Should we let him tag along?"
Evenlyn turned toward where his voice had come from earlier. "If he can keep up."
Rowen's voice was steady. "I can."
But then, his tone changed — lower, warmer.
"And if you ever feel that mansion's glass walls closing in again… I'll be wherever the air feels most like freedom."
Evenlyn's lips froze slightly open. Her chest rose, just once.
And in that exact moment, in that broken space of woods and words, Rowen Hale stopped being a stranger.
Not a savior. Not a soldier.
Just a man who knew how to say the right thing without trying too hard.
And for the first time in a long time, Evenlyn didn't feel like she was carrying her pain alone.
They walk together, though neither says the words aloud.
"Will you come with us?" she had asked, voice light like mist.
And he, too proud to admit he's already following, had answered,
"Only if the wind allows me to wander."
Somehow, both knew they were walking in the same direction.
They pass a quiet brook that murmurs secrets to the stones. Her friend skips ahead, laughing at something the air whispered, and then—like a flicker—remembers her errand.
"I forgot my mother's herbs. I must return," she says, half-apologetic. "Can you take her back to the mansion?"
Before the male lead can respond, the blind girl tilts her head toward the sound, lips tugged in mischief.
"Shouldn't I be the one dropping him? I still remember the way, you know."
He almost smiles.
Their steps carry them deeper into the woods, where the sunlight melts into a hundred shades of green. The forest breathes around them, and for a long time, neither speaks.
"I thought you came out to visit," he says finally.
"I did," she answers. "But also… I came for the fragrance."
His brow furrows. "Fragrance?"
"The real kind. The kind that isn't trapped in glass bottles," she says. "The kind that waits in petals, in crushed leaves, in sun-dried bark. You don't see it. You feel it."
"You feel it?"
"Like music without sound. Like a memory you never had—but still miss."
He looks at her. She cannot see him, yet somehow she sees more.
With graceful fingers, she kneels and gathers soft purple blossoms into her basket. Her hands glide like dancers over herbs and wood chips she knows by name and touch. He watches her work in silence, as though watching someone build a secret world.
Then she turns, sensing his stillness.
"Would you like me to make one for you?" she asks, voice barely louder than a breath.
He says nothing. She takes that as a yes.
In less than fifteen minutes, she blends the gathered essence—petals, oils from crushed bark, powdered herbs—with something creamy she keeps in a small tin tied at her waist. Her hands move with practiced ease.
"Give me your hand," she says.
He hesitates. Then offers it.
She dips her fingers into the soft, fragrant cream and smooths it gently across his wrist. Then she lifts his arm and holds it near his face.
"Smell it," she murmurs. "Not just the perfume. It's mixed with your skin now. Your warmth. Your sweat. That's what makes it real. Perfume isn't perfume until it becomes someone."
He inhales. There it is. Not just the scent of leaves and lavender and bark. But something more. Something human.
She's still holding his hand. He doesn't pull away.
A strange silence folds between them—soft, charged, unexplained.
He looks at her. The way her head tilts slightly, as though listening for the way the world breathes. The way she wears the same perfume now, and it lingers in the air like the echo of a question.
He wants to say something.
Anything.
But the words tangle somewhere in his chest. So instead, he says, "We should go. It's getting late."
And she, smiling like she knows more than she lets on, answers, "Yes. I've taken what I came for."
They walk back in the evening hush. Neither says what just happened. Neither knows what it means.
But something is different.
He knows it.
And he's afraid of how right it felt.
Back at the mansion, she parts from him at the door with a nod.
He watches her disappear behind the silk-curtained hallway.
His wrist still carries the perfume.
But it's not the fragrance that haunts him.
It's the feeling.
The dining hall is alive with laughter, the clang of plates, and the low hum of voices. But not everyone dines in the open tonight.
Inside the quiet of her own room, lit by nothing but the soft silver of the full moon slipping through the narrow window, she sits cross-legged on the floor, a plate between her and the only person who makes her forget she is different—her friend. The same friend who often speaks more with her eyes than her words.
They eat slowly, the room filled with quiet comfort. Not silence. Just a space that doesn't demand anything.
Her friend watches her carefully, then nudges her knee. "So… how is he? That one who brought you in. Is he… nice to you?"
She doesn't answer immediately. She chews, thoughtful. Finally, she sets her spoon down, her gaze lifting slightly—though her eyes still carry their familiar white haze, her presence feels larger than the room itself.
"He's not cruel," she begins. "And not warm either. But steady. Like dry land after a storm."
Her friend's eyebrow arches. "That's… vague."
"It's not," she replies. "He speaks little. But his silence is full. It's not the kind that makes you lonely."
Her friend smiles and takes another bite. "So, he's a… not-so-wild soldier with half a heart?"
She lets out a soft breath—half-laugh, half-exhale. "Maybe."
They continue eating. The full moon outside is bold tonight. Brighter than usual. Its glow bleeds into the room, reflecting off the white walls and illuminating the folds of her saree like liquid pearl. She turns her face toward it—not to see, but to feel.
And then, almost without warning, she speaks in verse. A soft voice, as if she's reciting something the moon itself whispered to her.
> "A silver eye that sees it all, yet asks me not to see,
I carry stars inside my ribs, and storms they'll never see.
The moon may light a thousand paths I'll never dare to tread—
Yet still I rise, in quiet grace, though night has left me bled."
Her friend puts down her spoon. "You… you always say things like this when it's full moon."
"Maybe because I feel most seen when no one else is looking," she replies.
Her friend leans closer, a whisper almost caught in laughter. "Why do you always talk about your eyes? You act like they matter. But you smell when a lie walks past you. You hear even the difference in breath between strangers. You—"
Before she can finish, the girl speaks again, softly but firmly. And this time too, in her way—in poetry, cloaked honesty.
> "The world took light from out my eyes, not life from out my soul.
They fear I break where I have bent, not knowing I am whole.
I do not grieve what I have lost, nor chase what never stayed—
For I have built a kingdom in the silence others trade."
The friend looks at her like she's looking at the moon herself. There's no pity. Just awe.
What neither of them knows is that someone's listening.
Sitting just outside, the soldier who had led her in earlier leans silently against the wall, eyes closed—not asleep, but still. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, not really. But when he'd gone to check if she had eaten, he heard voices through the narrow gap in the wooden panel. Her voice.
He had stayed. Not to spy—but because something about her words had rooted him in place.
"She doesn't carry her wounds like a victim," he thinks. "She carries them like armor."
He hears the poem. Every line of it. And though he doesn't understand poetry much, something in her words stir something ancient and personal inside him. Something he forgot he still felt.
"She doesn't cry over what she can't see. She fights for what she can feel."
He doesn't move. He won't go in. But he stays, long after the voices go quiet, the food is cleared, and the friend begins humming an old tune to fill the sleepy air.
He stays because, for the first time in a long time, someone's pain didn't scream at him—it sang.