Back in Blackthorne Forest, Helena's breath caught in her throat as she stared at the man standing a few feet away, half-illuminated by the flickering firelight. The shadows played tricks on her eyes, but the voice… that voice was unmistakable.
"Ethan," she whispered, barely audible. Her legs felt like they might give out.
The man stepped closer, and even after all these years, she could still recognize the slope of his shoulders, the familiar steadiness in his gaze. His hair was longer now, darker in the dim forest light, and his clothes were weathered like a traveler's. But it was him. It was really him.
"Helena," he said softly, his voice thick with something between awe and sorrow.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She wanted to run to him. To slap him. To hold him.
"You're alive?" Her voice cracked. "You didn't die?"
Ethan nodded slowly, guilt flickering across his face. "I should've told you sooner. But I couldn't. Not yet."
