"It is late... and yet, you are still at work?"
My voice was but a whisper—light and hesitant, as though even the sound of it might disturb him: the man seated with his head bowed over a neat stack of papers, pen moving steadily like the tireless hands of a clock.

He did not look up, yet I knew he heard me. The pale light caught the outline of his face, partially veiled beneath strands of muted red hair fallen across his brow. His expression did not waver—composed, precise, and touched with that familiar, distant solemnity. He wrote on, each stroke of ink as deliberate and exacting as the man himself, flowing as if predestined.

I let my gaze drift to the uniform he wore—immaculate in its austerity, white with silver trim and the royal insignia gleaming upon his shoulder. Neither he nor the soldiers who had accompanied him belonged to Berlinard.

They were from the capital.

A fleeting thought brushed past my mind—Could it be... Caelum who sent him?
But I dismissed it almost at once.
No... If it were Caelum, he would not send word. And if he did, he would not let me know.
Still, in that brief moment, my heart stirred with a quiet ache.

I turned from the uniform and looked out the window. The rain had ceased, but puddles lingered on the uneven stones, reflecting the wan moonlight. Berlinard, this weatherworn town, remained as it always had—silent, somber, and so desolate that even the night winds seemed to pass it by.

The arrival of royal troops was no rarity. A change in reign often brings reassignments—new commands, new faces. Here, in this forgotten corner of the realm, change came slowly... but it came nonetheless.

Some arrive.
Some depart.
And some... are gone forever.

I exhaled softly, saying no more. For a while, I merely stared into the fire, wishing to hold its glow a little longer—as if, perhaps, in its flicker, I might glimpse a trace of the years that had passed, and the man who once lived them with me.

Eventually, the scratching of pen upon paper ceased.

The soldier raised his eyes. His gaze met mine across the modest distance between our tables—keen and unwavering, yet lacking any chill. The lamp's glow caught in the strands of his hair, still damp from the storm, a few curls clinging stubbornly to his forehead.

"One cannot rest while the work remains undone."
His voice was calm and low, resolute without pretension—as though he were stating a fact, not requesting agreement.

No complaints.
No weariness betrayed.

"I see."

A faint smile crept to my lips—so small, I scarcely noticed it myself.
How long had it been since I last smiled without effort?

It felt strange, like a part of my face long slumbering had been gently awakened. It was not joy, precisely... but something softer, lighter than the sorrow I had grown used to.

I glanced at him again—this man whose sternness did not trouble me. On this cold, rain-drenched night, his steadfast presence brought with it... a strange sense of peace.

"Then you should rest, once you are able," I murmured, my words no louder than breath.

From my sleeve I drew a handkerchief—simple, but neatly folded; something I had tucked away earlier, in case the rain persisted. I placed it at the edge of his desk, close enough for him to see.

"The chill comes quickly when one lingers too long in the night. And those who keep such hours are the first to fall ill."

I did not meet his eyes as I spoke, but instead focused on the creases of the cloth, as if the sentiment were too delicate to bear the weight of direct gaze.

Perhaps... this handkerchief would be enough for today.

I had never been one for grand words, nor did I feel entitled to speak to him with the ease of familiarity. But I understood this much: men like him—men forged in duty and silence—perhaps read more truth in small gestures than in a thousand flowery phrases.