The sun bled across the horizon in slow, aching colors.
Orange melted into red. Red sank into purple. The sky looked wounded, as if the day itself had been cut open and left to fade quietly.
Tomora walked along the edge of the cliffs, boots scraping against loose stone. Below him, the sea stretched endlessly, dark and restless, crashing against the rocks far beneath like something trying—and failing—to climb its way back to the surface.
The wind tugged at his cloak, frayed edges snapping like tired flags. He barely noticed.
In his hand rested a flower.
Its petals were pale and fragile, almost translucent when the light caught them just right. They curved inward gently, as if protecting something precious at their center. Despite the harsh wind, despite the salt in the air, it remained whole.
Tomora's thumb brushed over one petal, slow and careful.
He had memorized its shape.
Each ridge. Each softness. Each faint shimmer of life that shouldn't still be there.
Patricia's last creation.
The wind howled louder, trying to pry it from his grasp. His fingers tightened instinctively, shielding it with his palm.
He exhaled through his nose, breath catching halfway out.
Footsteps crunched against stone.
Tomora stopped.
The air shifted—not sharply, not violently, but enough for his instincts to stir. Water responded before thought did, a thin ripple crawling along his wrist, ready to harden at a moment's notice.
From behind a jagged slab of rock, a figure stepped into view.
Small.
A boy—no older than twelve, maybe thirteen. He wore simple clothes, patched and worn from travel, and a plain mask covered his face. It wasn't ornate. It wasn't intimidating. Just old, cracked in places, tied with a faded cord.
The boy stood still, head tilted slightly, as if listening to something Tomora couldn't hear.
"You're far from anywhere safe," the boy said.
His voice was calm. Not challenging. Not afraid.
Tomora lifted his gaze slowly, eyes sharp but tired. The kind of tired that sleep didn't fix.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The boy took a step closer, boots steady on the uneven ground.
"Someone who sees more than what you show," he replied. He gestured subtly toward the cliffs behind Tomora. "Come. It's not good to wander these parts alone."
Tomora studied him.
The wind tugged at the boy's clothes, but he didn't sway. Didn't brace. Didn't seem bothered by the height or the drop or the way the ground could give way at any moment.
Suspicion flickered—but exhaustion smothered it just as quickly.
After a long pause, Tomora nodded.
The boy turned and walked toward a narrow split in the rock face, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. Tomora followed, ducking as the opening swallowed them both.
—
The cave was warm.
Not hot—just… gentle. Crystals embedded in the walls glowed softly, casting amber light that softened every shadow. The air smelled faintly of earth and something sweet, like crushed leaves after rain.
Tomora blinked as his eyes adjusted.
The boy reached up and untied the cord of his mask, lowering it just enough to reveal his face. His features were young, unscarred, his eyes bright with a kindness that felt almost out of place in a world like this.
"You look like you've been through hell and back," the boy said lightly.
Tomora frowned. "Hell?" He tilted his head. "What's that?"
The boy chuckled softly. "Oh. You haven't read the Bible, have you? You should give it a try."
Tomora didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the stone table in the center of the cave and carefully placed the flower upon it. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
"Why should I try reading a book right now?" he asked.
The boy's gaze drifted to the flower.
"What's that?" he asked, stepping closer.
Tomora's shoulders stiffened. "It was my friend's," he said quietly. "She made it."
The boy waited.
"She's dead now," Tomora continued, voice flat. "Guess that's life."
The boy didn't respond right away. He reached out—not to touch the flower, but to hover his hand above it, respecting the space it occupied.
"You try to hide your pain," the boy said softly, "but that only makes it worse."
The words slipped between Tomora's ribs like a blade.
His breath faltered.
"…What… are you… talking… about…?" His voice cracked, splintering under the weight of each word. "Hiding it? Why would I do that?"
His vision blurred.
The cave lights smeared into streaks of gold. His chest tightened, pressure building until it had nowhere left to go.
"I miss her," he whispered.
The words escaped before he could stop them.
"I miss Patricia."
His knees buckled slightly. He sucked in a sharp breath, then another—but it didn't help. Tears spilled freely, trailing down his cheeks, catching against the raised ridge of his scar.
The sound he made was small. Broken.
Then reality slammed back into place.
He stiffened, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. He straightened, forcing his shoulders back.
"Oh—sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to—"
"Don't worry," the boy said gently.
Tomora froze.
The boy didn't look uncomfortable. Didn't look scared. He simply stood there, hands at his sides, eyes steady and warm.
"And you must carry her memory," the boy continued. "It's what keeps us human."
Silence filled the cave.
The crystals hummed faintly.
Tomora swallowed hard. His gaze drifted back to the flower on the table. Its petals trembled slightly, reacting to the faint stir of power beneath his skin.
He nodded once.
Slowly.
Something loosened in his chest—not gone, not healed—but acknowledged.
Outside, the sun finally slipped beneath the horizon.
And for the first time in a long while, Tomora did not feel entirely alone.