They left the chapel as dawn cracked through the trees, fog rolling low like breath from the earth itself.
Once, they walked apart.
But now…
Their fingers were intertwined.
Not out of affection.
Not out of understanding.
But out of need.
The boy did not speak. He rarely ever did. But his grip was firm, steady. As if he'd feared letting go meant she might vanish as everything else had.
She didn't speak either. But she looked at him now, not just as a shadow in front of her, but as something alive. Someone who hadn't asked for her name, but gave her food. Someone who bled beside her, then woke up leaning in her lap and never asked why.
They walked through the woods in silence.
But it wasn't the silence of death anymore.
It was the silence of recovery.
The trees thinned as they reached a slope. From the top, they could see it a burned field, once farmland. Here and there, the skeletons of homes still stood, blackened. Crows circled above.
The boy paused.
She stepped beside him.
Neither said it, but they both understood no safety there.
They turned west, toward a stream that caught the light. The water was clearer than anything they'd seen in days.
The boy knelt beside it.
He washed his face. Dirt, blood, ash all pulled away in ripples. He splashed water on his neck, arms. Then he looked at her.
She hesitated.
Then stepped forward.
He cupped his hands, scooped water, and offered it to her.
She blinked — a tiny flicker of surprise on her otherwise frozen face.
She leaned in and drank from his hands.
It was the first thing she had done not out of mimicry, but because she chose to.
When she finished, she stayed there, crouched near him. He watched a small blade of grass float by.
"Serai," she said softly.
The boy turned.
She looked at him, her eyes no longer so empty.
"My name," she whispered. "It's Serai."
He stared.
Then slowly, he opened his mouth.
Voice cracked, dry like old paper: "I'm Caelum."
They sat in silence.
But a different silence now.
One with names.
One with meaning.
And as the wind stirred the leaves and the sky dimmed again toward dusk, they rose together.
Still hand in hand.
Not out of need this time.
But out of something fragile and warm trying to grow where death had lived.