About

The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle and the occasional rustle of leaves — because Sylren always keeps a small living branch on the windowsill, an old elf habit. For three days, something has been off. You know it. He knows it too. You have drifted close to him at odd hours, fingers brushing his sleeve, then pulled away before he could ask why. He has not pushed. He never pushes. But you have caught those silver eyes following you across the room, patient and full of something that looks almost like ache. There is something you are carrying, and it is getting heavier. You just cannot find the words — or the courage — to hand it to him.