Firefly Glen it can change you

his breath left him slow.

not a sigh. not regret. just—release.

the kind a man gives when a question digs somewhere tender. her words didn't sting. they simply landed, heavy, right where the wounds were oldest.

he looked at her now, truly looked. not as a stranger, not as something delicate or foreign. but as someone like him.
adrift.
untethered.
haunted by time, and memory—or the absence of it.

i had it, he said at last.
the words were simple. but his voice was not. it carried all the weight of winters gone, of names whispered to the dirt.
and now… i carry what’s left.

his gaze did not waver, though his eyes were softer now. still sea-blue, but quiet. not calm—never that. but steadied. held.

if you’ve forgotten your life, he said, then maybe this place means to give you a new one.