The warmth of the sun embraces the city in a golden veil, kissing the skin with a gentle glow.

Footsteps echo along the narrow street stretching before you -

one after another.

Shadows dance against the worn stone walls, like paper-cut puppets playing out the quiet theatre of mundane life.

The breeze carries the soft scent of baked goods, fragrant tea, and that distinctive sweetness of blooming flowers.

Your steps begin to match the rhythm around you, losing their sound in the amalgamation of noise.

Reflection appears and disappears in every store window you pass -

a fleeting blur of fading time.

Each building becomes a memory as you walk.

Ancient remains and newer architectural choices blend in harmony, none of them losing their sense or purpose.

None of them bending.

"Where modernity and history coexist," you think to yourself, admiring the scenery.

The crowd's laughter and tumult begin to scatter, slowly fading into nothing.

But the street does not end just yet. It splits in two.

To the right, people are drawn in - lingering by storefronts and open cafés, indulging in the usual end-of-week rituals.

To the left, however, stillness and quietude make themselves at home. No soul treads the brick-paved path, where, between the cracks, small blue flowers sway in the delicate zephyr.

You pause for a moment, your gaze lingering on the undisturbed one. Light cascades over the distant cathedral, its stained glass glimmering in the dimming brightness. The small houses are adorned with garlands of ivy, wrapped around the structures like silent witnesses to ephemerality.

An almost inaudible sigh escapes your lips, knowing from the very first moment your eyes fell upon the street, you would choose this way.

Left - where the quiet does not feel suffocating, but comforting.

With each step you take, it feels as though you are being welcomed into an unexplored part of the city - one people either do not know of, or simply choose to ignore in favor of the vibrant life beyond.

A nostalgic piano melody interrupts your unhurried walk. Someone plays with intention, letting the wind carry the unspoken words of a melancholic soul.

You allow the melody to guide you, following its pull until you stand before a massive wooden door, half-open.

An invitation.

The song continues as you step inside.

No one.

And yet, the tune persists, coming from somewhere deeper within.

The room resembles a long hallway, its high walls embellished with paintings framed in golden and silver floral borders. Each piece carries a spirit of its own, capturing the quintessence of its creator.

A landscape here. A portrait there. And further along, still-life vanitas compositions.

You pause to take them in, appreciating each work you pass. Every line tells a story, and every signature at the bottom bears the pride of the one who created it.

And then, a smile graces your lips, your eyes softening with surprise as you notice a detail you hadn't expected.

A majority of these works are signed by women.

"Such an amazing thing…" you whisper.

You continue forward, your steps slower now, muffled against the stone.

The hallway narrows toward its end, where a single piece rests upon the central wall. Candlelight flickers gently around it.

Something about it feels… different.

You move closer.

Your breath falters.

Because you know that face. You know it too well.

The melody carries on behind you, dulcet and flowing - until your eyes fall upon the words beneath the drawing.

And then -

silence.

"The beginning of it all."

You read the handwritten words aloud, your fingertips gently tracing the worn paper.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips.

He never changed. Still the same hopeless, tender-hearted man.

Even after all these years.

Still holding on to that quick sketch made on a market morning -

where your eyes spoke more than anything else in the world.

The silence is soon filled with measured steps.

You turn toward the sound, your gaze drifting to the opening at the back.

Him.

Leaning against the archway, watching you for a moment. Not speaking.

Just taking you in.

The ardor in your eyes is still there - untouched, blazing.

You are the same.

But your energy is not.

And now, he understands why you are here - and not in the village anymore.

His expression shifts from surprise to something more knowing.

"You still have a staring problem," you break the silence, stepping toward him.

He moves as well, meeting you halfway.

"Some things are not meant to change," he replies, a faint smile touching his lips.

Your hand reaches for the silver ribbon in his hair, catching the soft radiance of the candlelight.

"I can see that," you reply, amused, recognizing the familiar silk.

He takes the hand that still holds the ribbon, guiding it gently upward.

His lips brush over your knuckles - brief, careful.

A confirmation.

You are real.

"Good hunt?" the wife asks, pointing to the deer resting over the horse's back, dried blood staining the white coat around its neck.

Sandor grunts in response, looking around, yet you're nowhere to be found.

"Where is she?" he asks the woman, taking the animal and swinging it over his shoulder to bring inside. The owner watches him, impressed by the strength of the man before him.

"She is in the back. Couldn't wait for you to arrive and started moving the hay bales," she replies while opening the door for him.

He snorts at hearing about your whereabouts.

It doesn't surprise him - you're an impatient woman.

"Didn't think she had it in her," the older man's voice echoes from the hallway.

"Yes," she agrees.

"Your wife is like a flower..." she continues softly. "Beautiful. Gentle. Yet-"

"Has thorns," Sandor interrupts her, a subtle smirk sitting right at the edge of his lips.

He wanted to add more. But it was better to stop.

Poisonous was the word that remained on his tongue. A syrupy poison, dripping from every sentences you utter in limited situations.

Poison -

a word filled with the burning truth about you.

A woman who knew how to navigate the world.

Knew when to speak and when to listen.

Possessing the knowledge of how to make people bend to her will, using it not in a merciless way, but with decency.

Never happy that she has to use it on someone.

He has observed that better over the past days since you stayed at the tavern.

This is why you survived this long on your own.

With a thud, he throws the body onto the wooden table. He takes the knife, its metal reflecting the ember of the candlelight - a blazing blade in the hands of a sure-handed man.

Unhurried, he guides the tip to the fur, slowly beginning to skin the animal.

The knife resists, not even piercing the meat.

"Seven fucking hells," he mutters, irritation coursing through his veins. "Not even a sharp knife in this whole damned tavern," he continues to whisper to himself.

Sandor yanks his hunting knife from its place and begins to sharpen the dull one.

The slow rasp of steel against steel cuts through the quiet, harsh and grating in the early evening air.

He presses his thumb against the blade - testing it.

A satisfied grunt leaves his throat.

He begins his work, moving with precision, effortlessly butchering the carcass with quick motions.

He looks like he was born with a knife in his hand.

The table is darkened by coagulated crimson. The iron scent spreads through the room, suffocating, mingling with the smoke from the fireplace.

His imposing figure dominates the small space. Muscles tense with each movement he makes.

After so long, he is alone.

Just him. Himself. Doing what he knows best.

His calloused hands, soaked in crusted raw red, break down the bones.

The cacophony reverberates within the structure.

Heavy breathing. Steel rasping. Meat tearing apart.

The metallic sound against bone dissolves, leaving only the hushed crackle of the fire behind him.

Sandor sets the knife down, its edge still dark with iron. A slow exhale leaves his nose as he wipes his hands on a cloth.

For a moment, he just stands there - looking at what is left behind, and what has already become routine.

Then he turns away from the table.

Footsteps echo through the hallway.

Muted at first.

Then present like a strong heartbeat.

The door opens with a creaking noise.

You.

Covered in hay and dirt from working outside all day, helping the family that welcomed you into their home.

Sweat clings to your hairline and neck, slowly trailing downward. Gliding over your collarbone and inside your shirt.

Buttons wrongly fastened, unintentionally exposing your chest.

Sandor stares without shame, a small smile lingering on his lips.

Your brows furrow, not understanding why he looks at you like that.

And then you follow his gaze.

"Pervert," you accuse him, embarrassment gradually settling over you. You worked in this state all day, not realizing after dressing in a hurry that morning.

A soft chuckle escapes past his bloodied lips after he scratches his beard.

You try to undo your buttons to align them correctly. You pinch the first one, yet Sandor interrupts you.

One by one, he unfastens them.

And one by one, he presses each button through the fabric, his filthy hands staining your shirt.

At the last button, his eyes meet yours.

"Learn how to dress yourself," he comments, a touch of tease in his tone.

You huff at his words.

"Many will try to undress a woman. But here you are... dressing me up," you match his banter, desperate to hide the evidence of what his simple gesture made you feel.

Heart wildly racing.

"Don't get used to it," he replies.

You don’t say anything.

But you are very aware of the warmth of his hands still persisting on your shirt - even after he steps away.

A dream…

A face never known.

A forgotten piece of paper,

a charcoal pencil.

And a spirit etched into aged fibers.

A grandiose piece of marble -

a block of nothingness -

formless,

soulless,

lifeless.

And it began.

With measured touches, the monumental mass - unbroken, still, and waiting - began taking shape under your hands.

Each precise strike of the hammer against the chisel sent pale dust dancing through the air, swaying to the melody of metal on marble.

You work slowly, neither forceful nor careless.

Your caresses upon the coldness of the stone imprint traces of warmth - intention, attentiveness, devotion.

As the marble lost its obscurity, your body began to ache - your arms, back, and mind enveloped in exhaustion.

Days passed,

and nights unfolded.

The light shifted in the studio, from glowing sunrays to the faded thread of the moon.

Your gaze always on the page, observing.

You stepped back to compare paper to stone, closing your eyes to remember the whispers of the dream.

And then returning to the statue.

A ritual.

A refuge.

A place of belonging.

Days turned into months,

and months into the unknown.

What was once unseen to the eye

bit by bit, materialized.

A firm arm resting by his side, fingers curled faintly, barely brushing his thigh.

The other arm curved, emphasizing a soft arch - muscles prominent, veins visible.

The pointing finger stopped mid-air, caught in the act of reaching for something he can’t touch.

Posture proud, impeccable, yet restraint runs thin - a fragile string, ready to snap.

His expression unreadable, eyes gazing into the distance, searching for something.

Searching for a reason,

anything,

or someone.

Searching for the one he can’t call, yet can see.

The one he can’t answer, yet can hear.

Only a few meticulous details remained - sanding, smoothing, polishing - the surface warming beneath your touch.

And you spoke to him, as you always did.

Never expecting a response, yet the marble listened.

It always had.

You pinch the veiled marble, feeling it, ensuring there is no imperfection in the texture.

The thin, diaphanous layer lies upon him, both concealing and revealing, outlining the sharp lines of his body.

There is no space for flaws.

You gaze up at the statue, admiring the theatrical play of shadow and light upon his face.

You sigh once, and stand.

A small smile forms on your lips as you trace the scars with your fingertips - they had to be there.

These weren’t blemishes.

They were meant to be there.

Without them, his truth would fracture.

The identity you never knew,

yet sensed in the deepest part of yourself.

You watch him one last time, uttering a whispered goodbye before departing from the studio, taking the candle holder - flame burning, illuminating the way out.

The door closes behind you.

Darkness returns.

And the ghost of your touch still on his cold skin.

The hall is dimly lit, a silver glow embracing the walls as it spills from the half-open door.

You place the candle on the wooden table, wax melting, dripping along the metal of the candlestick.

Fire flickering -

and silently giving its last breath.

Now, the moonlight adorns the room in luminescent chains.

You sit on the bed tucked into the corner’s nook, your head resting against your knees, eyes fixed on the nocturnal sky - stars glimmering playfully, taunting one another with their games.

Some falling.

Some reborn.

Some fading.

But always together.

Always borrowing the radiance of another to brighten their path.

But you?

You have no one.

Solitude - woven deep into your being - has carved a hollow space in your heart, consuming you whole.

A tear slips down your cheek.

And then another follows,

and another,

and then many more.

Weeping.

Shaky breaths.

Your body trembles slightly.

The wails echoing.

And it reaches him.

It breaks him to be held in stillness.

Cursed stillness.

You gave him all your days and nights, lingering for hours, watching him emerge from nothingness.

A pause -

and the endless stillness fractures.

The sky seems to answer -

his body stirring beneath its cloak of marble.

Guided by instinct, his steps carry him toward the sound of your sobs, something aching deep within his chest.

He stops in the doorway.

Hand to his chest, gripping warm flesh through the thin veil.

A beat.

A heartbeat.

He lives.

But at what cost -

to witness his creator in agony?

Moonlight reveals you to him, unveiling every layer.

His steps are inaudible upon the soft rug as he approaches, waiting at the edge of the bed.

A hand hovering in the air, craving to offer solace.

But your gaze rises - eyes meeting his.

"You?" is all you manage to say, voice uneven, broken.

"Me," he mirrors.

No fear.

No confusion.

Your hushed, solemn prayers have been answered.

You never thought someone was listening.

But you were wrong.

So wrong.

Your devotion.

Your sorrow.

Your solitude.

Your tears.

They were always witnessed.

Always seen.

Always heard.

And now he stands before you - Simon - as the dream had murmured.

A name you knew,

yet never felt more divine.

Another tear traces your cheek, but he is there to wipe it away.

His gentle hands cradle your face, fondness in his eyes.

His thumb erases the last evidence of sadness, softly speaking your name - voice devout, acknowledging the sacredness of its bearer.

His creator.

Your creation.

Twin halls stretch toward the central chamber, separated only by an ornamental partition wall. Its marble surface is pierced with crescent openings and floral garlands, allowing glimpses from one passage into the next.

Your footsteps resound through the empty space.

No soul visits the art gallery at this odd hour.

And yet, this is what enchants you -

the silence.

Your gaze falls upon the splendid paintings adorning the walls - a harmonious blend of styles, techniques, and genres.

The ceiling is embellished with golden celestial details, paired with soft touches of pink and blue.

The air carries that distinctive scent of a historical establishment - dust, melting wax, and somehow a hint of jasmine and mint.

Amber light peeks through the branches, gently reflecting onto the stone floor, creating trails of luminous ribbons.

Another set of footsteps begins to echo.

In an eerie way, they match yours, composing a rhythmic pattern.

Turning to glance behind you -

no one.

But your gaze lingers for a heartbeat too long on one of the wall openings - a shadowed silhouette.

A long coat wrapped around the body, swaying behind with each movement. Hair like a royal golden mantle draping over the shoulders, catching the low glow of the waning sun.

And those aureate eyes.

Familiar eyes.

Eyes you knew many moons ago.

They hold the same warmth they once carried.

That warmth when they gazed at you in the slow mornings, glimmering with adoration and softness.

The warmth of a summer night under moonlight, fireflies dancing in the air, grass moving in the zephyr, and his hold tightening around you.

The warmth that looked down at you on that cursed day, constellations above as witness, his eyes battling the tears threatening to fall.

You remember those irises well.

Side by side, you walk in separate corridors, divided only by the decorative wall between you.

For a few paces, it hides everything. Then an opening appears.

The sweep of his dark coat.

The turn of your shoulder.

Pale fingers brushing marble.

Hair stirring in the wind through the half-opened window.

Stone again.

Another opening.

The lift of his gaze.

The edge of your silhouette.

Silver glinting at his hand.

The soft movement of your clothes against the floor.

Then the wall closes once more.

Unseen, yet moving as one, you continue toward the main hall.

Slowly, the narrow space widens.

A luxurious round hall, decorated with Corinthian columns, and a single central work of art.

A statue.

You approach it, and he follows right behind you.

Your steps halt. So do his.

Admiring the sculpture before you, representing life-sized figures.

A man and a woman.

Two lovers.

Eternal love frozen in time.

Preserved after centuries, even when their mortal bodies no longer bless the earth with their presence.

And yet their souls remain etched in stone.

Once shapeless.

Now taking the form of true devotion.

Two souls sculpted from one block of marble.

He moves closer to you, his hands mirroring the sculpture’s position - arms embracing his lover’s body.

His head rests on your shoulder, though he does not face you.

Not yet.

Your fingers follow the motion of the woman’s, gently resting on her lover’s arm.

Moments pass, and you do not know who is meant to represent the definition of tenderness.

You, or the art.

All you feel are his tears creating a path of love upon your heart, while yours slowly fall onto his hand.

His left hand.

Where a silver ring glimmers in the candlelight.

Horizon filled with a mantle of dark, heavy clouds.

The smell of rain in the air.

Branches wail beneath the coming wind.

Leaves whisper of changing weather and colder nights.

When the rain begins to pour from the heavens, a blessing appears before you.

A place where no one knows who you are - a village.

Small, but enough.

Not ruins like the ones you passed days ago.

Smoke rises from chimneys, candles casting flickering shadows across the walls within.

The muddy road leads you to an old tavern, its wooden fence nearly breaking beneath the merciless touch of time.

Sandor enters first, ducking slightly beneath the low doorway.

He scans the room. The few people inside - drinking, eating - fall quiet, their eyes drawn to him.

The owner and his wife sit in a shadowed corner.

After finding no immediate threat, he gives a short nod, stepping aside to let you in.

You close the door behind you, the hinges cracking loudly in the silence.

Walking side by side, you feel the weight of every stare as you pass.

Sandor meets them with a glare of his own - unbothered by their judgment, but ready to break the neck of anyone bold enough to undress you with their eyes.

Your hand finds his, squeezing once.

Behave.

He approaches the owner, asking for a room.

"We have no rooms to spare, sir," the man replies, voice low, careful in the presence of the looming figure before him.

Sandor is used to rejection. It does not move him. But the thought of you out in the rain does.

"Are you sure, old man?" he presses, stepping closer.

You move between them instinctively.

"Please, kind sir... don't mind my husband," you utter in an instant, tone gentle, yet laced with a strong intent.

The owner’s gaze shifts to you, softening as he listens.

"We’ve come a long way... our village burned down many days ago," you say in a whispered voice, the tremor in it tangible.

A lie.

"We only ask for a place to rest. We have nothing left," you continue, tears slowly trailing down your cheeks.

A pause.

"We will work. Whatever you need. We’ll repay your kindness," you finish, wiping your tears, looking at him with red, sorrowful eyes.

The man glances at his wife.

There is a distinct understanding in the woman's expression.

A mother.

A mother who once had a daughter.

She steps forward first, expression light and gentle.

Her worn hand takes yours.

"You may stay, my child," she says, the warmth of her heart reflected in her irises.

You glance briefly at Sandor before looking back at them.

A small smile forms on your lips.

"Thank you. May the gods bless you."

The woman guides you through a narrow hallway, dimly lit by a single candle.

Wood creaks beneath your steps, the storm still raging outside.

She stops in front of a door, pushing it open.

"A simple room," she says with a soft smile. "But it will keep you warm."

You step inside.

Small.

Modest.

One bed.

Your gaze lingers on it for a moment.

Behind you, Sandor exhales quietly.

No comment.

The door closes, leaving the two of you alone, the sound of rain filling the heavy quietness.

You set your things on the wooden table, trying to ignore the weight of his presence in such a confined space.

It was nothing new.

You had been in close proximity before, back at your house, but you never had to share a bed.

And you had not been this close since that night when the stars above witnessed you.

Outside, thunder rolls low across the sky.

And inside, the tension persists.