Harry came home when the night had settled deep.

The gate opened slowly beneath his hand, the hinge giving a small sound before falling silent. The porch light switched on, yellow light spilling into the yard, stretching across the tiles in uneven streaks. His steps were unsteady. His shoes met the ground out of rhythm, as though each step required an extra moment to decide where it would land.

He walked straight into the garden.

The chair beneath the porch roof was still there. Harry sat down, his body slumping into it, leaning back farther than necessary. The chair gave a soft creak—old wood bearing weight—then held. He did not correct his posture. He let himself tilt, like an object set down carelessly, never quite adjusted.

The garden around him was still beautiful.

The rose beds stood upright, stems firm, leaves thick and green. The grass had been trimmed neatly, kept from spilling into the path. The soil around each base was smooth and clean, marked by regular care. The porch light fell at an angle, glazing the leaves, catching on them in dull reflections.

Everything was the same.

Only one thing was missing.

Harry lifted a hand to his forehead, then lowered it very slowly. His head felt heavy, a faint spinning inside, like a slow circle turning without rest. The taste of alcohol lingered in his throat—hot, dry. He swallowed, but did not stand.

A light wind moved through the garden. Leaves stirred, brushing against one another with small, almost inaudible sounds. The wind chime beneath the porch roof trembled once, a thin note sounding and then stopping, as if uncertain whether it should continue.

Harry turned his gaze to the corner of the yard.

The four strange saplings from before were no longer saplings. Their trunks had grown taller, their leaves broader, their shapes distinct now. And on each of them, buds had formed. They were still tightly closed, the tips slightly bowed, their color not yet revealed—but their presence was unmistakable.

Harry looked for a long time.

He leaned forward, as if trying to see more clearly, then sank back again when dizziness caught him. His hand rested on the arm of the chair. His fingers trembled, beyond his control. He tightened his grip for a moment, then let go.

Everything around him was still beautiful.

And everything inside him was empty.

He turned his head and looked across the yard. The small wooden table. Two chairs set side by side. The space between them was not large, yet wide enough for the light to fall clearly between. There were no second footsteps. No voice calling his name from behind. Only wind, leaves, and the sound of his own breathing.

Harry closed his eyes for a while.

When he opened them again, the light was still there. The garden remained still. The buds stayed closed, as if guarding a secret they were in no hurry to reveal.

He lifted a hand and wiped his face, then let it fall to his thigh. His hand continued to shake, never fully still. He lowered his head, looking at his shoes dusted with dried soil, at the faint smear of mud along his trouser leg.

A stronger gust of wind passed through.

The wind chime rang again. This time the sound lasted longer, louder, a thin chain of notes striking one another before dissolving into the night. The buds quivered, their tips moving ever so slightly, as if answering.

Harry opened his eyes and looked straight at them.

He said nothing.

He only sat there, in a garden tended with care, surrounded by beauty left intact, with his head unsteady, his hands trembling, and *an emptiness spreading through his chest—slow and deep—*like the night continuing on without waiting for him to catch up.

Harry remained there for a long time, until the spinning in his head softened into a heavy, steady rhythm.

He leaned slightly to one side, his gaze moving slowly across the familiar garden. The rose beds still lined up neatly. The soil was still carefully turned. The porch light still fell exactly where it always had—no more, no less. Everything bore the marks of patient care, of days when someone had been there, of mornings and afternoons once filled with quiet voices.

Then his gaze stopped.

The chair beside him.

It was still there, set close to the one he sat in, the distance between the armrests just enough for two elbows to have brushed. The back of the chair leaned slightly toward him, as if someone had only recently stood up. The seat was empty now, no indentation left behind, yet the light still fell on it exactly as before, forming a solitary patch of brightness.

Harry looked at the chair for a long time.

Longer than he had looked at the strange buds in the garden. Long enough for his neck to ache, but he did not turn away. Images surfaced without needing names: a figure sitting at an angle, a dress lifting gently in the wind, a soft laugh rising and fading. No sound actually reached his ears, yet the emptiness seemed to echo clearly.

He reached his hand out to the side, without thinking.

His fingers met cold air. There was no one there. No familiar warmth. Only the smooth, cool surface of the wooden armrest. His fingers closed around it slowly, as though holding on to something that had just slipped beyond reach.

Another gust of wind passed through.

The empty chair shifted slightly, releasing a small creak. The sound stood alone in the quiet garden, sharp enough to tighten his chest. The wind chime rang with it, but this time the sound was no longer light. It stretched on, thin and sorrowful, like a sentence left unfinished.

Harry lowered his head.

The world tilted faintly, as if the garden itself had leaned. His hands continued to tremble. He rested his elbows on his knees, bent forward, his forehead nearing his interlaced hands. His breathing grew heavy and slow, each breath drawn longer than the last.

Everything was beautiful.

And that beauty made the emptiness sharper.

He lifted his head once more and looked at the empty chair. The light remained unchanged. No one sat down. No one pulled it closer. No voice called his name from behind.

There was only him, sitting askew in his chair.

And the chair beside him, empty.

The wind passed through again. The buds on the four strange trees quivered softly, their tips stirring as if trying to open to something in the night. But they remained closed, holding their color and shape to themselves.

Harry looked at them, then back at the chair.

He did not stand.
He did not move the chair closer.
He did not leave.

He only sat there, in a carefully tended garden, beneath the porch light and the sound of the wind chime, with an empty chair beside him and *a loneliness rising slowly—deep and heavy—as if it had always been there, waiting for this moment to finally be called by its proper name.

End Of Chapter 18