Arya stood on the roof of his house, his gaze fixed on the sinking sun.
The sky burned with shades of crimson and gold, as if the world itself were slowly bleeding into the horizon.
The colors were truly beautiful—just like you, my dear sister.
"I know you're waiting for me," he whispered, his voice barely carried by the evening wind.
There was a time when he never thought he would be able to stand like this again, calmly watching the world move forward. Each breath, each moment of silence, felt like a miracle stolen from fate itself. Yet, without her beside him, this beauty felt meaningless. A hollow reward for surviving.
It had been three years since the incident.
The disaster that swallowed the city.
According to the official reports, everyone had been rescued. No casualties. No losses. A perfect ending.
Arya almost laughed.
He knew the truth.
