"Roselle," he said softly, tasting the name like smoke.
She didn't flinch, but he saw it—the flicker in the storm. Old things. Fragile things that had no place in this war, yet lingered like the scent of blood after rain.
"Don't," she warned.
He let the corner of his mouth twitch—half a smile, half a scar. "Then stop looking at me like you remember who I was."
Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
Cain moved first, stepping past her toward the door. She didn't follow immediately, and for an instant he felt the gravity between them—an old orbit, trying to pull him back into a sun that had burned out long ago. He severed it with motion, with the weight of his boots on the stone, with the door swinging wide to let in the cold night air.
"Come," he said without looking back.
And she did.
***
The streets had changed.
