The silence stretched.
Not empty — just careful.
He remained where he was, half-shadowed by the stone, shoulders still as if movement itself required permission. The blue glow lingered faintly around them, dimmer now, like a held breath.
Zelene took a step forward.
He did not retreat.
That alone told her more than any confession could have.
Up close, she could see the signs of a life lived in places no one else wanted — the faint scars along his knuckles, the way his cloak had been mended and re-mended, the careful economy of his movements. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive. Someone who had learned, long ago, to take up as little space as possible.
"They're afraid of you," she said softly.
His jaw tightened.
"They fear what they don't understand."
"And they don't try to," she replied. "That part is on them."
He looked at her then — really looked — searching her face for something. Suspicion, maybe. Or pity.
Zelene held his gaze steadily.
"I noticed it," she continued. "The way they avoid certain tunnels. The way they answer too quickly when we ask questions. The way they smile like they're trying to convince themselves."
"They call me cursed," he said quietly.
The word did not sound bitter. Just… old.
Zelene's chest ached.
"They don't see you," she said. "Not the way you are."
He gave a small, humorless exhale. "They see enough."
"No," she said gently. "They see what they're afraid you might be."
She hesitated — then lifted her hand.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Giving him time to pull away.
He didn't.
Her fingers brushed his knuckles first — tentative, barely there. She felt him tense for a heartbeat, like someone unused to touch, unused to being reached for rather than avoided.
Then she closed her hand around his.
His skin was warm.
Solid.
Alive.
The warmth of his hand lingered between them, fragile as a secret.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then—slowly—he loosened his fingers, not pulling away, but easing his grip as though afraid of holding too tightly.
"You shouldn't," he said.
Zelene frowned. "Shouldn't what?"
"Touch me."
The word came out flat, practiced. Like something he had been taught to say long before he ever understood it.
She didn't let go.
His gaze dropped to where their hands met, blue light catching faintly along his knuckles. His voice lowered.
"They say it begins small," he continued. "A fever the next morning. A cough that doesn't leave. Stone creeping into the joints. Or the eyes."
Zelene's breath stilled.
"One look," he said quietly. "Too long. Too close. And something inside them hardens. They stop breathing the way they should. Their bodies forget how to stay soft."
Her fingers tightened instinctively.
"That's not—"
"I was a child," he interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. "And when the goats sickened, they said it was because I watched them too closely. When a woman's hands stiffened with age, they said I passed her in the tunnel."
His jaw clenched.
"When a boy didn't wake after winter… they stopped letting me near the fire."
Zelene felt something twist painfully in her chest.
"They told me," he went on, "that warmth around me was borrowed. That if I stayed too long, I would steal it. Leave only stone."
He finally looked up at her, eyes searching her face with quiet urgency.
"So if something happens to you," he said, "it will be my fault."
Zelene swallowed hard.
She lifted their joined hands slightly, pressing his palm more firmly against hers.
"Then explain this," she said softly.
He froze.
"You're not ill," she continued. "You're not turning to stone. I'm still breathing. My heart's still beating."
He shook his head once, a small, almost desperate motion. "It doesn't always happen right away."
"Or," she said gently, "it doesn't happen at all."
The blue glow around them flickered, uncertain.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath now, close enough that there was no room for superstition to hide behind distance.
"Look at me," she said.
He hesitated.
Then he did.
Nothing shattered. Nothing hardened. Nothing died.
Zelene met his gaze steadily, unafraid.
"I see someone who's been blamed for things he couldn't control," she said. "Someone who was easier to fear than to understand."
His voice wavered. "You don't know what I am."
"I know what you aren't," she replied. "You're not a curse."
Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles — slow, deliberate.
"And if one look from you could truly kill," she added, quieter now, "I wouldn't still be standing here."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "No one ever stayed this close."
Zelene didn't let go.
"Then maybe," she said, "it's time someone did."
The mountain did not protest.
The stone did not harden.
And for the first time in a very long while, the belief he had carried like a sentence — heavy and unyielding — cracked, just slightly, under the simple, undeniable truth of her warmth still pressing against his hand.
Zelene's lips curved into the smallest smile.
"See?" she murmured. "You're warm."
His breath caught — just slightly.
"I was told," he said after a moment, "that things like me were cold."
She shook her head. "That's just something people say when they don't want to admit they're wrong."
She kept holding his hand, grounding him — grounding herself. The warmth traveled up her arm, steady and reassuring, not strange or overwhelming.
"You live here alone," she said, not accusing, not pitying. Just stating the truth.
"Yes."
"That doesn't mean you deserve to be."
He looked away, eyes flickering toward the tunnel that led back to the village above.
"They tolerate me," he said. "As long as I stay below."
Zelene tightened her grip slightly. "That's not the same as acceptance."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
She stepped closer, close enough that the stone pressed cool against her back and the faint blue light brushed her cheek.
"You saved me," she said again. "Not because you had to. Because you chose to."
His voice was low. "You weren't afraid."
"I was," she admitted. "Just… not of you."
That finally made him look at her again.
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes.
Loneliness, yes — but also longing. Not for power. Not for recognition.
Just for someone to stand where she was standing now.
Zelene squeezed his hand gently.
"You don't feel cursed," she said. "You feel like someone who's been listening to the world for a very long time."
Silence settled between them — softer now, warmer.
For the first time since she had entered the mountain, Zelene felt it relax.
Not open.
But listening back.
And somewhere deep in the stone, something ancient and patient shifted — not in warning.
But in acknowledgment.