Chapter 9 — The Letter That Waited
The ink bled slowly across the page, like a secret unfolding.
Lyra sat at her writing desk, the candlelight flickering against the windowpane. Outside, the night was quiet — no footsteps, no wind, only the hush of a palace holding its breath.
She dipped the quill again, hesitated, then began to write.
> *To the one who never sleeps,
>
> I don't know if I'm allowed to write this.
>
> I don't know if you'll ever read it.
>
> But tonight, I needed to speak to someone — and you are the only one I wish would listen.*
She paused, fingers trembling slightly. The words felt too soft, too exposed. But she kept going.
> *You said I chose to stay.
>
> You were right.
>
> I could have run. I could have begged to go home. But something in your silence called to mine.
>
> I don't understand you. Not fully. But I see you.
>
> I see the way you look at the stars like they owe you something.
>
> I see the way you walk through your palace like it's a cage made of gold and fire.
>
> I see the way you never touch anything unless it's breaking or blooming.
>
> And I wonder… which one am I?*
She stopped again. Her heart beat too loudly in the stillness.
Then, slowly, she wrote the last lines.
> *If I am to burn, let it be beside you.
>
> If I am to bloom, let it be because of you.
>
> Yours — though I don't know if I'm allowed to say that —
>
> Lyra*
She folded the letter carefully, sealing it with a pressed firelily petal she had hidden in her sleeve since the greenhouse.
Then she placed it in the drawer of her desk.
Not to send.
Not yet.
But to keep.
Because some words are not meant to be spoken aloud — only kept close, like embers waiting for breath.