Bramblepoint old wounds

he saw her first in profile—pale against the forest dark, slow-moving, deliberate. and for a breathless moment, the years fell away.

callyope…

his chest tightened. something ancient flickered in his ribs. the way she carried herself, the quiet—too familiar. but when she turned, and he saw her eyes, the illusion broke. not callyope. not the woman who haunted every silence.

still, he did not move. not at first.

the forest was quiet around them, as though it too recognized the heaviness she carried. the scent of grief was not unlike his own—old, sharp, resigned.

he stepped forward, enough for his frame to become visible through the timber.

you walk like a ghost, he said lowly, not unkind.

a pause.

as do i.