The wind softened as the afternoon stretched on.
They had moved back up the hill and settled beneath the old tree again — this time without falling.
Izana sat with his back against the trunk, long legs stretched slightly in front of him.
Leah lay comfortably with her head resting in his lap, facing the city.
From here, everything looked small.
Controlled.
Quiet.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Izana's fingers absently traced patterns along her arm. Leah closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Then—
She felt movement shift.
Not gentle this time.
Rougher.
Repeated.
A faint scratching sound echoed above her.
Scrape.
Pause.
Scrape.
She frowned slightly and turned her head to look up at him.
Izana wasn't looking at her.
He was focused on the tree trunk behind him.
A knife glinted in his hand.
Leah blinked.
"Where did you get that?" she asked softly.
He didn't stop.
Scrape.
"It's mine," he replied casually.
"You always carry a knife?"
"Yes."
That answer came too easily.
She pushed herself up slightly on her elbows to get a better look.
The blade was sleek. Not overly ornate — but not cheap either. The handle was dark, worn smooth from years of use.
She had never seen it before.
"Izana," she said carefully, "I've never seen that knife."
He paused for half a second.
Then continued carving.
"You wouldn't have."
"Why not?"
"It stays on me."
That wasn't really an explanation.
She sat up fully now, turning toward him.
"What are you carving?"
He shifted slightly so she could see.
Their initials.
IG + LG
Not large.
Not dramatic.
Just carved small and deliberate into the bark.
Her heart softened for a moment.
"You're vandalizing a tree," she murmured.
"I'm preserving history."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
But something felt off.
The way his grip tightened around the handle.
The way his jaw was set.
Her eyes dropped back to the blade.
That's when she saw it.
Near the base.
Along the groove where metal met handle.
A faint discoloration.
Dark.
Old.
Dried.
Her breath slowed.
"Izana…"
He didn't answer.
She reached out and gently took his wrist.
He stopped carving immediately.
The knife stilled.
"There's blood on it," she said quietly.
He looked at the blade then.
As if noticing it for the first time.
"It's old," he said flatly.
"Whose?"
Silence.
The wind picked up slightly, rustling leaves above them.
He didn't pull his hand away.
But he didn't answer either.
Leah's chest tightened.
"Why do you still carry it?" she asked.
"It's useful."
"That's not what I meant."
His jaw flexed faintly.
Finally, he lowered the knife slightly, resting it against his thigh.
"It was a gift," he said.
"From who?"
"Elias."
She blinked.
"For what?"
"My fourteenth birthday."
The number hit her strangely.
Fourteen.
She swallowed slowly.
"That's… young."
"In our world, it isn't."
She studied him.
Fourteen years old.
A knife as a birthday gift.
Her mind began piecing things together quietly.
"And you've carried it ever since?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
His eyes darkened slightly.
"Because it reminds me."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, his gaze lowered to the blade resting in his hand.
The silence stretched longer this time.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't defensive.
He just looked… distant.
Like he wasn't fully here anymore.
Leah's fingers tightened gently around his wrist.
And then—
It clicked.
Fourteen.
The knife.
The blood.
Her heart dropped.
Two years ago… in the mansion when they sat in a bath together… when she'd seen the word carved into his chest—
Monster.
He had told her once.
Quietly.
Emotionless.
"I did it when I was fourteen."
Her breath caught softly.
She slowly released his wrist.
Not because she wanted to.
But because the realization made her hands tremble.
This was the knife.
The same blade.
The one he used on himself.
The one that carved that word into his skin.
Her chest felt tight.
She looked at the blade differently now.
Not as a weapon.
But as a witness.
"You used this," she said very quietly.
It wasn't a question.
Izana didn't look at her.
His thumb brushed lightly over the handle.
"Yes."
The word barely left his mouth.
Leah's eyes burned faintly.
"You were fourteen," she whispered.
He gave a small, almost humorless exhale.
"Yes."
"Why would you keep it?" she asked, her voice trembling now. "Why would you keep the thing that—."
He cut her off gently.
"Because I survived it."
She froze.
He finally looked at her.
Not cold.
Not harsh.
Just steady.
"It's not a reminder of weakness," he said quietly. "It's a reminder that I endured it."
Her throat tightened.
"But you hurt yourself," she said softly.
"Yes."
"You carved something into your own skin."
"Yes."
"And you keep the blade like it's… what? A trophy?"
His eyes flickered slightly at that word.
"No," he said calmly. "Not a trophy."
"Then what?"
"A line."
She frowned faintly.
"A line between who I was and who I chose to become."
The wind moved through his dark hair slightly.
"When I was fourteen," he continued, voice steady but distant, "I believed what they called me."
Leah's chest ached.
"But after that," he said quietly, "I decided if I was going to be a monster… it would be on my terms."
Silence fell heavy between them.
Leah didn't know what to say.
She didn't know how to respond to a boy who had carved pain into his own chest and turned it into armor.
Slowly, carefully, she reached for his hand again.
This time not questioning.
Not accusing.
Just holding.
He allowed it.
Her fingers wrapped around his.
The knife remained in his grip — but lower now.
Less defensive.
"You're not fourteen anymore," she said gently.
"I know."
"You don't need this to remind you that you survived."
His eyes met hers.
"And if I forget?"
"You won't."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because I remember for you."
That hit him harder than he expected.
His grip loosened slightly.
For the first time since she'd seen the knife, something vulnerable flickered across his expression.
"You shouldn't have had to go through that alone," she whispered.
He didn't respond immediately.
Because there wasn't an easy answer.
Instead, he lifted the knife one last time and finished carving the final letter into the tree.
Then he closed the blade slowly.
The sound clicked softly in the quiet air.
He set it beside him on the grass.
Away from them.
Leah moved closer and gently leaned into him.
Not lying back down.
Just resting against his side.
After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
The city stretched below them.
The old tree stood behind them.
And carved into its bark were their names.
But between them on the grass—
Lay the same blade that had once carved the word monster into a fourteen-year-old boy's chest.
And for the first time—
Leah understood that Izana didn't carry it to glorify the pain.
He carried it because he survived it.
But she also knew—
Some scars weren't meant to be carried forever.
And someday soon—
She would have to decide whether to ask him to let it go.