A few minutes after the last drops of rain ceased tapping on the eaves, the world beyond the window seemed to hold its breath. Only the faint drip of water from the gutter remained, falling now and then like an echo refusing to fade. One by one, the soldiers drifted away from the tavern's ground floor, their boots creaking on the old stairs as they retired to the small rooms above.

The common room, once filled with voices and laughter, was growing still — the air hung heavy with the scent of liquor, the last glow of oil lamps casting trembling light upon the wooden walls.

After the revelry had passed, the space between the tables felt wider somehow, emptier. The room, which had just moments ago been wrapped in noise and movement, now stood silent, as though it had cast off a mask and revealed the quiet desolation that had always lingered beneath, waiting patiently for everyone to leave.

Perhaps the only ones left were myself... and the soldier from earlier. He had remained to tally the numbers, to make certain all were accounted for. In the room where only minutes ago laughter rang and cups clattered, there was now only the two of us — and the fireplace, whose flickering flames painted dancing shadows upon the timeworn ceiling.

I sat in silence in the corner, hands wrapped around a teacup long gone cold, eyes drifting, almost without meaning to, toward the figure across the room. He bent over his ledger with quiet focus, turning pages, marking lines, his brow furrowed in careful concentration. Beneath the wavering firelight, his face was a study in both gravity and fatigue.

Unlike the other soldiers — now deep in slumber or gathered somewhere whispering idle tales — this man continued to work. His dark brows drew together as he reviewed each name with unyielding precision. One could tell, even from a distance, that he was not a man familiar with carelessness. Duty clung to him like a second skin, never once slipping from his shoulders.

I thought to myself: without him, this room would be nothing but the scent of wine and a silence that swallowed everything whole.

The scratch of his pen across paper was steady, like rain remembered in dreams. It was the only sound left in a room that had forgotten the warmth of voices, the rhythm of footsteps, the soft collision of glass and laughter.

He did not look up once. Head bowed, pen in hand, the lamplight carved a shadow across his face, long and narrow. His eyes narrowed from weariness, yet he missed no figure, no name. His expression remained unchanged — stern, unreadable, the kind that left one unsure whether he was angry, focused, or simply uninterested in interruption.

I said nothing. I didn't know what to say. I should have thanked him — for what happened earlier. Had he not stepped in, I might still be sitting here, bowed under the weight of pitying glances.

But what words fit such a moment? When the sound of his pen continued like a metronome of duty, declaring he had no need for idle conversation?

I glanced at the documents spread before him — troop orders, headcounts, rain-stained reports yet to dry. Soldier's work, handled with the care of a clerk or a statesman.

His eyes moved, just briefly. A glance — whether in my direction or merely surveying the table, I couldn't tell. No expression followed. Only the reflection of firelight in his pale brown eyes, making everything about him seem sharper, stiller.

I turned my gaze away, fingers tightening around the cold teacup, thoughts crowding the quiet of my mind. Perhaps I would wait until he finished. Or perhaps, like the others, I would leave quietly, without a word.

"Earlier..."

My fingers clutched the edge of my skirt as I spoke, barely above a whisper. I had to gather all my courage just to let the words pass my lips — so soft I held my breath to hear them myself. If I didn't speak now, I never would.

"Thank you... for your help."

The pen stopped — a clean, deliberate pause. Not startled, but measured, as if every movement he made followed a reasoned order.

He didn't look up right away. Only after a moment, his voice — low, dry, and brief — broke the hush:

"It was nothing."

The sentence unfinished on the page, he resumed his writing as though no interruption had come. Yet the atmosphere had shifted — I knew he had heard me. He had received the words.

His hair fell across his brow, red like burnt brick — not bright like flame, but muted like a sunset thick with smoke. It was tied back loosely with a dark leather cord. A few strands swayed gently with each tilt of his head as he read, catching hints of copper under the fire's glow — like metal warmed, not melted. Rugged yet clean, practical without being harsh.

His face gave little away. His eyes moved with diligence over names and numbers. Beneath heavy lashes, they were deep and still, but not cold — as though they remembered everything, simply saw no need to speak of it.

He did not look at me again. But I knew: if I spoke once more, he would hear.

He simply belonged to the kind of men who never gave extra words to things they believed ought to be done.