The sky cracked open with spring rain as Ilahash stood by the edge of the riverbank, the same one where he and Hope had once skipped stones and dreamed aloud. In his hands, he held the letters—the ones he had never sent. Dozens of them. Pages folded in worn parchment, each one addressed to her, each one spilling out parts of him he could never say aloud.
He had tucked them away in a hollow beneath the firelight tree. Safe. Private. Sacred.
Until now.
Now, they were gone.
At first, he thought maybe he'd misplaced them. Maybe the wind had lifted them, or the rain had spoiled the hiding place. But the hollow was empty—dry, undisturbed. As if someone had carefully, purposefully taken them.
Panic bloomed in his chest. He paced the grove, his fingers trailing across trees and leaves like he could summon her with touch alone. "Hope," he whispered, though the forest didn't answer.
Amara found him like that—eyes wild, heart pounding, the emptiness around him matching the emptiness inside.
"You're missing something," she said quietly.
He nodded, unable to speak.
She stepped closer, hesitating before she asked, "Was it hers?"
"No," he said. "It was… mine. For her."
He didn't expect her to understand. But Amara always surprised him.
"Then they're not gone," she said. "Not really."
He wanted to believe that. But in the quiet that followed, he realized something else.
Whoever took the letters knew where to find them.
And that could only mean one thing.
Hope had come back.
He clutched the silver ribbon she had left behind days ago. Could it have been a sign? A message? A thank-you?
Or was someone else out there—someone who had touched her world, someone who now knew too much?
That night, the dreams returned.
He saw a shadowy figure with long dark hair and silver eyes, holding his letters to her chest like treasure. In the dream, she cried—but not with sorrow. With longing.
When he woke, he knew.
She had read them.
Every page. Every word. Every ache and apology he could never say aloud.
And still… she had not returned.
He didn't know if that made things worse or better.
Days passed. The rain softened. Flowers returned to the glade.
And then, one evening, beneath a violet dusk, he found a single letter tucked where his own had once been.
Written in her hand.
Five words.
"I still remember your voice."