The sun dipped low beyond the horizon, casting a golden hue over the floating island. The skies were painted in soft pastels—lavender and peach—while the wind carried with it the gentle scent of distant blossoms. Lucien sat alone on a moss-covered rock just outside the camp, eyes tracing the distant silhouettes of airships sailing through the clouds.
He hugged his knees, chin resting on them. Aeris had gone to report to her guard captain, and for once, the air was still. Quiet.
He should've been at peace. But something gnawed at his chest.
Even after the bond they'd started forming—even after the warmth of shared food and soft smiles by the fire—something was missing.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
"I shouldn't feel this empty," he whispered.
A twig snapped behind him.
Aeris stepped into view, her soft silver-blue hair flowing in the breeze, arms wrapped around herself. "You disappeared after dinner," she said.
Lucien gave a small nod, not looking at her.
She sat beside him, letting the silence linger before speaking again. "You always look like the world weighs too much on your shoulders."
He blinked. "Doesn't it?" he murmured, more to himself than her.
A moment passed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently.
Lucien hesitated. "...Have you ever felt like something inside you is broken? Like a part of your soul was taken and no matter what you do, it won't come back?"
Aeris turned her gaze to the sky. "Yes," she whispered.
Lucien looked at her, surprised.
She met his eyes. "I've lost things too, Lucien. People. Parts of myself I thought I'd never get back. But sometimes… sometimes we find pieces of ourselves in unexpected places."
His breath caught. The way she spoke—it wasn't just sympathy. It was understanding.
And just then, faintly, like a memory trying to sing, a sound floated on the wind.
A melody.
Lucien's head turned sharply toward the sound. "What is that?"
Aeris stood, listening.
"It's coming from the village square," she said. "They must be celebrating something. Come on."
Before he could protest, she took his hand.
He flinched—then calmed.
Her hand was cold, but her touch was warm.
The village square was alive with lantern light and quiet laughter. A small gathering of villagers had formed a loose circle around a man with graying hair, playing an unfamiliar stringed instrument. It looked somewhat like a lute but slimmer, longer, more elegant.
The melody was gentle. A lullaby, perhaps. But to Lucien, it was a wave crashing into his soul.
He stared.
Every note felt like a heartbeat he hadn't felt in years.
His legs moved on their own, bringing him closer. He sat down at the edge of the circle, eyes wide, trembling.
Aeris watched him from a distance, noticing how his breathing slowed—how the weight he always seemed to carry melted off, note by note.
When the bard finished, polite claps followed, but Lucien remained still, eyes locked on the instrument.
The old bard looked at him. "You've got the look of someone who hears more than just sound," he said kindly. "Have you played before?"
Lucien opened his mouth—then paused. Slowly, he nodded.
The bard smiled and held out the lute. "Go on."
Lucien's fingers trembled as he took it.
It felt both alien and familiar.
Like hugging someone you forgot you loved.
He plucked a string.
The note rang out—soft, imperfect—but to Lucien, it was everything.
He closed his eyes.
More notes. A scale. His hands remembered more than his heart did.
And then…He played.
A melody of sorrow and longing poured from the strings. Not perfect, not polished—but real. From the soul.
The village faded. The lanterns dimmed. There was only him and the music.
And across from him, Aeris stood frozen—eyes wide, lips parted.
Tears slipped down Lucien's cheeks as the final note lingered in the night air.
He lowered the instrument slowly, his hands shaking.
"Why are you crying?" Aeris asked softly.
Lucien wiped his eyes. "Because for a moment… I remembered what it felt like to be alive."
Later that night, they sat by the campfire, a quiet hush between them.
Lucien stared at the stars, arms resting on his knees. "Music was all I had," he said, voice low. "Before… this world. Before I died."
Aeris looked at him, but didn't interrupt.
"My grandfather taught me. He was the only one who cared. Everyone else… they hated it. Hated me."
He sniffed. "They tried to beat it out of me. And when I got sick… they just let me rot."
Aeris reached out, gently placing her hand over his.
He looked down at their hands, then back at her.
"I thought I'd lost it forever," he whispered. "That part of me. But tonight…"
"You found it," she finished.
He nodded. "And I think I want to keep playing. Not for them… but for me."
Aeris smiled softly. "Then I hope you never stop."
That night, Lucien lay under the stars, the borrowed lute beside him.
He didn't sleep much, but for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he didn't feel empty.
In the morning, before anyone woke, he picked up the instrument again.
A few gentle notes danced in the morning air.
And far above, a flock of birds circled one of the distant floating islands, wings cutting through golden clouds.
Lucien smiled.
He hadn't healed.
But he'd found his first note of hope.