Tia stepped away from the table and stretched, arms rising above her head in a slow, cat-like motion that pulled the nightgown taut across her shoulders.
The firelight caught the faint silver scars along her forearms—marks Ed didn't remember from their adventuring days. Small, precise burns. Spell backlash, probably.
The sight twisted something low in his chest.
"I should change," she said, voice softer now that the initial rush of reunion had settled into something quieter, more tentative.
"This is hardly proper host attire for a guest who ran across the continent to see me."
Ed cleared his throat.
"You look fine. I mean—you always look—"
He stopped himself before the sentence could finish embarrassing them both.
Tia's lips curved, just a fraction.
"Still terrible with compliments, I see."
She turned toward the narrow staircase that led to the small loft bedroom.
Halfway up she paused, one hand on the railing, and glanced back over her shoulder.
"Don't go anywhere," she said. Not quite a joke. Not quite a plea.
"I won't," Ed answered, and the words felt heavier than they should have.
She disappeared upstairs.
Ed sat alone at the table and listened to the soft creak of floorboards overhead, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of wooden hangers.
Ordinary sounds. Domestic.
After a century of divine emptiness and the roar of collapsing worlds, they felt almost unreal.
He traced one finger along the grain of the table. Four chairs. Three beds visible through the parted curtain.
The math hurt more now that he was sitting in the empty space it described.
Footsteps returned—lighter, more deliberate.
Tia descended wearing the outfit he remembered best: fitted green tunic embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs, dark leggings, soft leather boots that laced to the knee.
Her adventuring gear, cleaned and meticulously maintained, yet somehow still carrying the faint scent of pine and old campfires.
She had tied her golden hair back in a loose braid; a few strands had already escaped to frame her face.
She stopped at the bottom step, suddenly shy, and smoothed her hands down the front of the tunic.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Weird to wear it indoors?"
Ed's throat closed for a second.
"You look…" He searched for a word that wouldn't sound foolish.
"Like you. Exactly like the Tia I left behind."
Her smile was small, almost fragile.
"Good. That was the point."
She crossed to the table again and sat opposite him.
Close enough that their knees almost touched under the wood.
For a while neither spoke.
The fire popped. A night bird called somewhere far off in the canopy.
Tia reached for the sewing kit she'd left on the table earlier.
She pulled out a fresh needle and thread, then gently took hold of Ed's sleeve—the one she hadn't yet mended.
"You're still bleeding through here," she murmured.
"Hold still."
Ed let her work.
Her fingers were cool against his forearm as she rolled the torn fabric back.
A shallow cut ran along the inside of his wrist—nothing serious, just a scrape from some thorned branch during the final sprint through the forest.
She cleaned it with a damp cloth that smelled faintly of healing herbs, then began stitching the sleeve closed around the wound.
"You don't have to do that," he said quietly.
"I want to."
Her voice was steady, but her lashes were lowered, hiding her eyes.
"You always patched everyone else up. Carried the extra packs. Cooked terrible stew so we wouldn't starve. Let me do something for you this time."
Ed watched the neat, even stitches form.
Each one felt like a small tether pulling the last ten years a little closer.
When she finished, she tied off the thread and smoothed the fabric flat.
Her fingers lingered against his wrist a moment longer than necessary.
"There," she said.
"You're presentable again. Mostly."
Ed flexed his hand.
The stitches were invisible unless you looked closely.
"Thank you."
Tia leaned back in her chair, folding her arms loosely across her chest.
"So," she said after another beat of silence.
"Where did you go? Really?"
Ed exhaled through his nose.
"It's… a long story."
"I have time."
Her voice was gentle but firm.
"Ten years' worth, actually."
He met her eyes.
Emerald, steady, still seeing too much.
"I didn't leave because I wanted to," he started.
"Not the way you think. After the expulsion—after I walked out of that tavern—I was… taken. Pulled somewhere else. Somewhere that isn't here."
Tia's brow furrowed.
"Another plane? A divine realm?"
"Something like that."
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.
"There was a contract. A stupid, one-sided contract. I had to join hero parties. Stay long enough to earn trust. Get expelled. Every time the same pattern. Every time I came back to the same white space afterward. And every time a new door opened to a new world."
Tia's breath caught.
"How many?"
Ed looked down at his hands.
"One hundred."
The number landed between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Tia stared at him for a long moment.
"One hundred," she repeated softly.
"A hundred times you watched people you cared about turn their backs on you. A hundred times you had to start over."
Ed gave a small, tired shrug.
"It wasn't always awful. Some worlds were kind. Some heroes were good people. But yeah. Most of the time… it hurt."
Tia reached across the table again.
This time she took both his hands in hers.
"You could have told us," she whispered.
"Back then. Before you left."
"I couldn't."
His voice cracked on the admission.
"The conditions were strict. If I broke them—if I told anyone the truth before the expulsion—the cycle would reset. I'd lose progress. And I was terrified that if I lost progress, I'd never get out."
Tia's grip tightened.
"So you carried it alone. All that time."
Ed nodded once.
She let out a shaky breath.
"You idiot. You beautiful, stubborn idiot."
She stood, rounded the table, and wrapped her arms around him from behind—chin resting on the top of his head, arms crossed over his chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into his hair.
"For not seeing it. For not fighting harder to keep you. For letting them convince me you were holding us back when you were the only reason we kept going as long as we did."
Ed closed his eyes.
Her heartbeat thudded steadily against his back.
"I never blamed you," he said.
"Not once."
"I know."
Her voice was thick.
"That's what makes it worse."
They stayed like that for a long time—firelight flickering, wind sighing through the branches outside, two people who had lost a decade trying to fit ten years of missing into the space between heartbeats.