Moonstone Quarry [m] snow trickles

he had not meant to speak so soon—had wanted to look upon her longer, to memorize how she stood against the dusk, gilded and wild, as if the sun bowed only for her—but her voice, her voice, it met him like a wave and pulled the words from his chest.
i had to, solharr said, throat thick. his voice was rough with the gravel of old grief, but honest. unhidden. his ears shifted back, his chin dipped, and he stepped forward just once—not to close the space, not yet, but to bridge something of it with his breath.
because of this. he gestured faintly, a motion that did not mean the quarry, nor the setting sun, but them. her eyes. his silence. the weight of it all.
i needed closure.
his gaze broke from hers, falling to the earth between them. a long, worn breath escaped.
she haunted me, he admitted, at last. not her spirit—her memory. the kind that waits behind every quiet. every time i looked at you, i saw what i never gave her. and that— his jaw clenched, voice low, that was not fair to you.
he lifted his eyes to her again. there was no armor in him. just a man who had bled for something he had not yet held with both hands.
i had to bury her. not in the earth. in me.
he paused.
and i did. so i could come back to you, whole.