There was a moment—just before the bells rang for the midday respite—when the halls of Halebourne quieted. Not silence, but stillness. Like the hush of a breath held before a revelation.
Aurelius found Desdemona just beyond the east garden arches, where ivy kissed the old brick and the sunlight poured in golden ribbons.
She sat alone on a stone bench, knees drawn up slightly, gaze resting on the empty lawn ahead.
"I never see you there," he said quietly.
She looked up, her mouth curling into a faint smile. "That's because I never go."
"You skip lunch?"
"I don't skip," she murmured. "I just… eat elsewhere."
He tilted his head. "Why?"
She hesitated. "It's noisy. The bread is stale. And sometimes, people are cruel without even realizing."
He nodded once, then said, "I know a better spot."
She raised a brow, but rose without question.
They walked through the overgrown path behind the old music hall, beneath creeping vines and past crumbling statues, until they reached a hidden courtyard. A fountain gurgled softly at its center, and three weathered benches framed it like a secret meeting place.
"No one else comes here," he said. "Not often."
She lowered herself onto one of the benches, her skirt pooling around her. "It's quiet," she said approvingly. "I like it."
Aurelius pulled a small cloth bundle from his coat and offered half a honeyed tart. She accepted with a quiet, grateful hum.
The wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.
After a few minutes, she reached into her bag, pulling out a small journal—well-worn, its corners soft from use. A folded paper fluttered from between the pages.
She picked it up, read a few lines, then paused.
"Still thinking about your stories?" he asked.
Her gaze flicked to him, startled.
"I mean," he added quickly, "you're always reading. You must have favorites."
She gave a soft laugh. "Yes… One in particular."
He waited.
"I've been following it for a while," she continued, more to the page than to him. "It's anonymous, but… I always feel like they write from a place I understand. Like they see things the way I see them, even when it hurts."
She unfolded the paper fully, revealing a piece of parchment—neatly lined, covered in her handwriting. Ink smudged slightly on the corners.
"I've been trying to write a reply. They never ask for them, but I always want to. I usually sign mine WildOrchid, but—" she broke off, laughing nervously. "That probably sounds silly."
Aurelius reached out, gently taking the paper before she could fold it again.
His eyes scanned the words.
"Do you think a story can make you feel seen—even if no one else ever looks at you?
If so… then thank you. For seeing me, even if you never knew. —WildOrchid"
His breath caught.
He knew that handwriting. Knew the delicate slope of her letters, the way she pressed harder on her commas, the faint swirl she left at the end of her d's. He had seen it before—on nearly every note tucked beneath his manuscripts in the reading box behind the hall.
She was WildOrchid.
And she had no idea that the boy she sat beside… was the author she trusted with her heart.
He looked at her then—not with shock, but with a quiet, reverent awe.
Des was still speaking, unaware. "I haven't finished my reply yet. I keep trying to find the right words, but they always feel too small. His latest chapter… it undid me. The way the prince still holds onto hope, even after everything—how does someone write like that?"
Aurelius smiled gently. "Maybe he's lived it."
She blinked, eyes soft. "Do you think so?"
"I think," he said, folding the note carefully and handing it back to her, "some people write to understand themselves. Others write to survive. And sometimes… they do both."
She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity.
"Have you ever read The House of Wintering Souls?"
He looked down, lips curving faintly. "I have."
She nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the paper. "It's strange," she said softly. "Sometimes it feels like the author knows exactly what it's like to be me."
He didn't answer right away. Just watched her—eyes lit by something between wonder and ache.
"Whoever he is," she murmured, "his words saved me a little."
He looked at her, chest tight.
"Mine too," he whispered.
The bell in the garden tower struck once—a soft note, signaling the school day's end.
Desdemona glanced up. "Milo will be waiting."
Aurelius rose with her. "I'll walk with you. Delphine won't leave without me."
They fell into step along the winding paths of Halebourne, where dry leaves chased their boots and the sun dipped lower in the sky. The silence between them wasn't heavy. It hummed gently, like the pages of a favorite book turning in the background.
"Does he read?" Aurelius asked after a while.
"Milo?" She smiled faintly. "Not yet. He says books are 'too sleepy.' But he listens when I read aloud. I think he likes the voices I make."
"Do you act them out?" he teased.
She laughed, cheeks warming. "Only when he begs."
He looked over at her. "I'd like to hear that someday."
She flushed deeper, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Maybe."
They walked the winding path past the chapel and through the town square, Des pointing out crooked chimneys and painted shutters as they went.
Milo was already waiting outside the school, kicking pebbles into neat rows. Delphine stood beside him, arms crossed like a tiny queen.
Delphine spotted them first and came skipping toward them, braid bouncing with each step.
"Miss Desdemona!" she squealed, flinging her arms around Des's waist.
Des bent to return the hug, smiling brightly. "Hello, my little shadow. Did you behave today?"
Delphine nodded solemnly. "Mostly. I told Milo you'd come."
Milo, trailing just behind, ran forward. "Dezzie!"
She scooped him up, spinning once before setting him back on his feet. "I told you I wouldn't forget today."
Aurelius raised a brow. "I see my presence here is completely overshadowed."
Delphine grinned up at him. "You're just a surprise."
He looked over at Des. "A good one, I hope."
She laughed softly.
As they turned to leave the schoolyard, the four of them in easy step, Milo gripped Des's hand while Delphine walked between them, spinning a tale aloud about knights made of sugar and dragons who hoarded riddles instead of gold.
"Do you think they'll be friends too?" Des asked, glancing at the children.
Aurelius watched Delphine and Milo, heads close together in whispered giggles.
"They already are."
Des smiled, a quiet curve of something both wistful and new.
And as they passed beneath the shadow of the chapel tower, Aurelius reached out—unthinking—and gently brushed a leaf from her shoulder.
She looked at him, startled but not afraid.
Something passed between them again.
Not a confession.
Not a promise.
Just a page.
Turning.