Ch15. Tomorrow Night, I’ll Be Here

When Anna returned that night, the guards at the city gate had just changed shifts.

She walked quickly the entire way, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face. But her face was burning.

So hot that for a moment, she almost believed the night wind itself was warm. She knew it wasn’t. She simply had not fully left that room yet. Her heartbeat had not slowed once between Ceylan Street and the palace.

And his final words were still pressed against her ears like a brand that refused to fade.

“If next time you can look at me clearly and still say the same thing… then I won’t stop.”

She returned to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. In the darkness. For a very long time. Addie asked through the door twice whether she was all right.

Anna said she was fine. Her voice was flat.

So flat that even she was surprised by it. But as she sat there in the dark, she began taking apart every detail of that night. The way he had stopped. What he had said.

The way he had guided her hand back between them.

That movement had been so steady.

Like a door with no crack she could find. She went through it once.

Then again. And eventually, she arrived at a conclusion she did not want to face. He had told her to wait. But he had never said that he wanted her. Anna held that thought down in the darkness for a long time. Until the sky outside began to pale.

Until her mind had rearranged every detail of that night again.

She had been the one who initiated everything.

She kissed him first. She was the one who said she wanted more. She guided his hand. She climbed onto his lap. He had only followed. He had let her lead him. And then he stopped.

Stopped so steadily. So clearly.

He gave her a graceful way out and said something that sounded like a promise— but could just as easily have been the gentlest possible way to reject her.

Anna lay down on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. She closed her eyes.

Her face was still burning. But somewhere in that moment, the nature of that heat quietly changed.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ For the next three days, she sent no letters to Ceylan Street. It was not that she deliberately refused to. Each time she picked up the pen and stared at the blank parchment, her hand would simply remain there.

For the time it took to drink a cup of tea.

Then, eventually, she would set the pen down again, fold the parchment as though nothing had happened, and place it beneath the corner of the desk.

She told herself she simply had nothing to say.

She told herself she was busy.

There were palace duties. Lessons. The tedious stack of schedules Addie brought her every morning. She told herself that night had only been an impulse. Anna repeated those things to herself for three days. Long enough that she almost began to believe them. Until the afternoon of the third day. She was walking beneath the covered corridor when a breeze carried the scent of gardenias from the courtyard.

Her steps stopped without warning. And suddenly, she remembered the scent of Jeffery’s coat.

Remembered the quiet of resting her face in the hollow of his shoulder. The kind of quiet that had made her feel she did not have to calculate anything.

That she only needed to stay there. The memory made something inside her chest contract.

Hard enough to hurt. Anna stood beneath the corridor and forced the pain down. Hard.

Then lowered her head and continued walking. Not fast.

Not slow. Like someone to whom nothing had happened at all. But inside her sleeve, her hand quietly curled into a very small fist.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ On the first day, Jeffery assumed she was simply busy. He placed the thought before himself like a fact that needed no particular confirmation. She lived inside that place. Every day, there were things he could not see waiting for her.

Lessons. Addie. The eyes of an entire palace. It was perfectly normal that she had not sent a letter. He had spent seven years walking alone. He could wait three days. That day, he went out and walked a long way. All the way to the southern market.

He circled through the horse market and silently reconsidered the few horses he had already marked as possibilities.

By the time he returned, it was dark.

He sat at Mrs. Ge’s table.

Finished the entire bowl of food. Left nothing behind. Went upstairs.

And slept. Normal. Completely normal.

That was what he told himself. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ On the second day, that word—normal—developed a hairline crack. Not because he was waiting for a letter. He wasn’t waiting. When he sat at the table studying the map, his eyes were on the map.

His finger traced the mountain road heading south.

His mind was occupied with routes. Timing. Checkpoints. Every detail that might matter. But his ears— were listening to the stairs. Not constantly. Only occasionally.

Only whenever there was some sound downstairs, and one of his ears would shift almost imperceptibly before he was even fully aware of it. The reflex of an animal that had learned vigilance in open country. Mrs. Ge’s slippers.

The dull rumble of a cart passing outside. The cat in the neighboring courtyard.

Not a knock. Not the sound of someone arriving with something. Sometime that afternoon, Jeffery realized what he was doing.

His finger stopped midway along the route on the map. He placed his hand flat on the table, palm down. And remained still for roughly the time it took to drink half a cup of tea. Then he rolled up the map. Stood. Walked to the window. Opened it. And let the afternoon wind into the room.

He stood there and let the wind pass through his thoughts until the part of him that kept listening to the stairs finally quieted a little.

That night, he polished his sword for a very long time. Long after the blade no longer needed polishing. He kept going.

As though the motion itself had become the purpose rather than the means.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ On the third day, the crack widened. Jeffery could not have said where it began. He only knew that when he woke that morning and sat beside the window as usual, looking toward the outline of the palace through the mist, his gaze lingered there longer than it normally did. Long enough for him to realize he was not looking at the palace.

He was thinking about one particular window inside it. Wondering what lay behind that window at this hour.

Whether a lamp was burning. Whether someone was sitting beneath it. He cut the thought off. Cleanly. Like severing a thread. But once it was gone, it left an opening behind. And through that opening slipped a question he did not want to face.

It settled somewhere inside his chest and refused to leave.

That night, he had stopped.

Stopped so steadily. He knew why. He told himself he knew. He told himself it had been the right thing to do. Her body had been too heated.

Her heartbeat too wild.

If he had continued, the responsibility would have been his.

He knew all of that.

He did. But that was no longer the question growing inside the crack. The question was this: Had she sent nothing for three days because she was busy—

or because she had gone back over that night, just as he had, and reached a conclusion that made her no longer want to come to him?

The thought made his fingers tighten around his knee before he even realized it.

The feeling was unfamiliar. Not worry. Something heavier. Duller. The feeling of something beginning to slip from your hands when you had no right to say: Don’t go.

Jeffery had walked for seven years. Dreamed for seven years. Never once had he felt attachment to a town, a road, or any bed he had slept in. He had always left cleanly. Lightly. Never keeping accounts of his time. And now he was counting for her.

One day. Two. Three. By the third, the number had left a tightness at the back of his neck.

That afternoon, he stood and walked to the table. Took out a sheet of parchment. Flattened it. Picked up the pen.

Then sat before the blank page for a long time.

The nib hovered above the surface. Nothing touched the paper.

He considered many openings. Every one of them lasted only a sentence or two inside his head before stopping. And every time, it stopped for the same reason.

He did not know whether the things he wanted to write were things he had the right to say.

He had been the one who stopped that night. He had been the one who said wait. Who told her to come back when she was clear-headed. So if he wrote to her now, what did that mean? That he had lost patience?

That he had not truly meant what he said?

He put the pen down. Folded the parchment again. Pressed it beneath the corner of the desk. Then stood and walked to the window.

He looked one final time toward the darkening sky in the direction of the palace. The sky was heavy tonight.

No stars. Thin clouds covered everything. Jeffery closed the window gently. Then stood with his back to it for a while. Motionless. He simply let the thing burning in his chest continue to burn. Deep. Steady. Without smoke. Heating his entire ribcage from within. Then he lowered his head.

His eyes fell to the letter opener on the table. And stayed there for a long time.

The blade lay silently. It said nothing.

It did not need to. It was simply there.

In the place he checked every morning to make certain it was still there. Like her. In the place it had taken him seven years to find— and less than a few days to begin counting time for. Jeffery reached out. Picked up the letter opener.

Slipped it back against his chest. Then turned toward the bed. Tonight, he decided, he would not think about any of this.

That was what he told himself.

Not tonight. He lay down.

Closed his eyes. And listened to the silence of Ceylan Street deep in the night. For a long time.

Until the silence itself made him realize he was waiting for a sound. A knock. A sound he had explicitly told himself he would wait for her to make— and yet was still listening for. Jeffery closed his eyes more tightly. And with all his strength, forced himself to stop listening. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

The moon was unusually full that night. But dark clouds kept drifting across it, repeatedly hiding its light.

Anna sat in the bathing chamber, immersed in warm water.

And still, she felt cold. She could not tell whether she was becoming ill. But the cold was strange. She could not explain it. She moved one hand through the warm water and lifted it over her skin.

As her fingers passed over her own body, she remembered that night.

Remembered guiding his hand over her. And receiving nothing. She was not an easy woman. Absolutely not. She had never even felt anything for another man before him.

So— she had been rejected, hadn’t she?

Calling it concern for her feelings simply made the rejection sound kinder.

The longer she thought about it, the tighter her chest became.

Twenty-six days had already passed out of the three months she had fought for.

For the first time, she wondered whether her resistance had been meaningless after all. Especially when she had believed— for a moment— that she had finally found something that might change everything.

Anna lowered her eyes. The surface of the bath reflected a faint, shifting outline of herself. She spoke quietly to no one.

“If you were going to reject me anyway… then why did you bother finding out about that stone wall…?”

No one answered. Only the moon.

Slowly disappearing behind another black cloud. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ Jeffery did not sleep that night.

He lay there for roughly two hours.

Long enough to become completely certain that sleep was not coming. Eventually, he sat up again. Pulled on his coat. Sat in the darkness for a while. Then stood, went to the table, and lit the lamp. The wick caught.

Dim yellow light redrew the edges of the small room. And illuminated the sheet of parchment he had kept beneath the corner of the table for three days without writing a single word on it.

Jeffery stared at the page.

For nearly the time it took to drink a cup of tea. He did not sit. He simply stood there. His coat was not even fully fastened, the collar open farther than he would normally allow. Usually, he would have noticed. Tonight, he did not. All of his attention was fixed on that blank page.

And in that lamplight, he walked through that night again.

Carefully. In such detail that even he was surprised by how much he remembered. Her eyes. The way she had said: “But I don’t know how to stop.” Whether her fingers had been cool or warm when she guided his hand. The exact instant her weight settled over his thighs when she climbed onto him. And her expression after he said: “Not like this.” He remained with that expression for a long time.

He had seen what was in her eyes when he said it.

He had seen it. He had simply chosen to classify it as impulse. As something she would understand differently once she had calmed down.

Now he was no longer certain that judgment had been right. He was no longer sure whether he had truly stopped for her sake— or whether he had used the idea of protecting her to give a respectable name to some hesitation inside himself that he did not yet understand.

Jeffery pressed both palms against the tabletop and lowered his head.

The question turned inside his chest.

Until it became something that tightened his throat.

She had not written for three days. Three days. He had walked for seven years. Not one person had ever made him count time for them. No place had ever made him count days while waiting.

He had always been the one who traveled lightest. When he left, he did not even turn around. And now he was counting her silence. One day.

Two. Three.

More carefully than he counted the two months and handful of days remaining. He knew what that meant. He had always known. He had simply kept that knowledge pressed beneath the sentence: Wait until she’s thinking clearly.

Like someone who had written the answer on the back of a page and deliberately left the page turned over. Jeffery stood beneath the lamplight for a long time.

Long enough for the wick to burn shorter. The flame jumped once. The small movement seemed to wake him. He raised his head. Looked out the window. The moon was full. But dark clouds moved slowly across it. Covering one edge. Letting it go. Then covering it again. Moonlight came and went across the stone road of Ceylan Street.

Cold. White.

A color he could not decide belonged to expectation or something else. Jeffery watched it. His throat moved. He did not know where Anna was at that moment. Did not know about the fist hidden inside her sleeve. Did not know she was sitting in warm water and still felt cold. But he knew himself. And he knew exactly how many times he had walked to that stone wall. How many evenings he had spent measuring that gap.

Why he had gone. What he had been measuring.

And what lay behind all those measurements. He had spent seven years refusing to keep accounts of his own time. Yet he kept them for her. Precisely. In detail. Even the width of the gap in the wall.

The difference in color between fresh lime and old stone. Every measurement. Every change. Written into his mind.

Suddenly, he pressed the thought down. Hard. Hard enough that the knuckles of the hand against the windowsill went faintly white. Then he turned. Walked back to the table. Sat. Unfolded the parchment. Picked up the pen.

This time, he did not let himself think too much.

Did not allow the question of whether he had the right to write to her to speak again.

The nib touched the parchment. He wrote only one line. “Tomorrow night, I’ll be here.” No greeting. No signature. No unnecessary word.

Because if he added even one more, he would stop and ask whether that word was right.

Then the pen would go down again.

The parchment would return beneath the corner of the desk. And their silence would become a fourth day. He folded the letter. Sealed it with wax. And placed it on the corner of the table. He would send it at dawn. Then he blew out the lamp. Sat in the dark. Watched moonlight move with the clouds across the floor.

He took Anna’s letter opener from inside his coat and laid it across his knee. His thumb moved slowly along the spine of the blade.

Back. Then forth. Like a man waiting for dawn.

Waiting for the first morning on which he would be the one to break the silence after telling himself he would wait. Jeffery sat there in the darkness. His face showed nothing.

But his heartbeat was slightly faster than usual. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

Anna could not sleep that night. In truth, she had barely slept at all for the past three days.

Her mind kept replaying what had happened. My expression must have looked awful.

The thought would not leave her. As a woman— surely he must think she was shameless.

No different from women working in brothels. No.

She was not judging those women. That was their work. They were surviving. They used their bodies to attract men because there was a purpose behind it.

But Anna? What purpose had she had? None.

She had simply followed what she felt. And now— it seemed humiliating.

So humiliating that she did not even want to see Jeffery again.

And three days without a word from him— surely that was answer enough.

Eventually, she had no choice but to force herself to sleep. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

Jeffery was awake before the sky had fully lightened. Not because he had slept enough. Because he had barely slept at all.

He had dozed against the chair for perhaps an hour or two and then simply remained there until pale morning began showing through the cracks around the window. He stood. Straightened his clothes properly. Then looked down at the letter resting on the corner of the table.

It lay there quietly. The wax seal looked dark red in the first morning light. Like a promise he had made to himself the night before.

Jeffery picked it up quickly. So quickly that he gave himself no opening in which to hesitate again. He went downstairs. Mrs. Ge was not awake yet. The kitchen was dark. The entire building still held the last silence before morning.

Jeffery opened the door carefully. Slipped outside. Closed it behind him. And stepped onto the street. Morning on Ceylan Street was colder than the moonlight he had watched the night before. The cold of empty stone.

The cold of a street no one had begun walking yet. He fastened the collar of his coat and carried the letter toward the home of the messenger boy he knew. The boy was twelve. Jeffery had found him when he sent Anna his first letter. The reason was simple. Every morning before sunrise, the boy went to the market to help his father push a cart.

His usual route passed near one of the palace side gates.

No one paid particular attention to a child pushing a cart. No one would notice if he slipped something through a narrow gap. Jeffery knocked on the door. After a while, the boy opened it with sleep-heavy eyes.

The moment he saw Jeffery, he woke halfway. He already understood. He held out his hand. Took the letter.

Took the small pouch of money.

Nodded. Then closed the door again. Jeffery stood alone in the narrow alley, looking at the closed door for a moment. The letter had been sent. The thought settled inside his chest. He could not tell whether it felt light or heavy. Light— because he had finally done it. After three days, he had finally broken the silence. Heavy— because the letter was no longer in his hand.

Those words were now in someone else’s hands. In the hands of a boy walking toward the palace. Jeffery could not take them back. He turned and walked toward Ceylan Street. His pace was neither fast nor slow. One hand slipped into his coat pocket.

His fingers unconsciously caught against the empty lining and curled twice. Only then did he realize what he was doing. He released the fabric.

Flattened his hand inside the pocket.

And kept walking. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ Back in his room, Jeffery sat beside the window again. Morning had fully arrived. The old blacksmith downstairs struck his first blow of the day. The sound carried through the morning air.

Heavy.

Regular. Exactly like every other morning Jeffery had heard during the past three months. Except today was not the same. Today, he had sent a four-word message.

And now he was sitting here waiting for an answer he did not know would come. He let that uncertainty sit inside him. Then sink. Down into some deeper place in his chest where it would no longer float at the surface and demand his attention.

He was normally good at that. Good at refusing to dwell on things beyond his control.

Good at disguising waiting as some other form of preparation.

But this time, it did not sink cleanly. His gaze fell to the table. To the empty place beside the letter opener where the letter had been.

And stayed there for a long time. Then he closed his eyes.

Drew in a slow breath. Let it move through him carefully.

She said she didn’t know. She said she didn’t know how to stop.

She guided my hand herself.

He laid the three facts out one by one inside his mind. Like someone verifying every piece of reliable evidence. Confirming they had truly happened. Confirming they were not something he had imagined. Not some ordinary gesture he had mistaken for a meaning that had never existed.

They were real.

He knew they were real.

Then these three days of silence were not an answer.

She had been waiting for him. Just as he had been waiting for her.

Two people had pulled their hands back at the same time. Each waiting for the other to move first. And the most dangerous thing about that kind of silence was not the silence itself.

It was that it could quietly carry two people who had no intention of leaving in opposite directions.

Jeffery opened his eyes. The crease between his brows eased slightly. Not much. But enough to feel like his foot had finally found solid ground.

The problem was not solved. He had simply confirmed that the ground beneath him was real.

He fastened the top button of his coat. Pressed it firmly into place. Then waited for the hour when the letter should reach her. Waited for the reply that might or might not come. Steadily. Like a man who had tended the same fire inside himself for seven years and had never been afraid of waiting.

Only the index finger of his left hand moved once across the grain of the windowsill.

Very lightly.

One line. Nothing more. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ Early that morning, a familiar knock made Anna open her eyes almost immediately.

She had not been fully asleep anyway.

Three knocks.

Pause. Two knocks. Addie’s habit. Anna’s gaze shifted. She noticed the lock from her bedroom door still sitting on the bedside table instead of being returned to its usual place.

Last night she had been so exhausted and distracted that she had apparently forgotten to lock the door at all.

“Come in. It isn’t locked.” Her voice carried no particular emotion. No different from usual.

She did not know what Addie was holding. So she only asked about the day’s schedule as she normally would.

“I have painting today, don’t I?” She spoke to Addie while still staring absently at the ceiling.

Addie entered and quietly closed the door behind her. As always, she surveyed the room once. Her gaze paused briefly on the disturbed bedding. Then on the lock that had not been returned to its holder. Then, finally, on the princess’s face.

Anna was staring at the ceiling with the expression of someone who no longer had the energy even to pretend. Only the thinnest shell remained. I’m fine.

Addie noticed everything. She said nothing. “Painting.”

Her voice remained even as she opened the small booklet in her hand and read through the schedule. “Before noon, in the west hall. The instructor will arrive near the end of the Hour of the Dragon. You still have roughly two hours.”

As she spoke, she was holding something else between the booklet and her palm. A small folded paper envelope. Neat. A dark red wax seal pressed into one corner. The seal bore none of the designs commonly used by the royal family. Only a circle. Pressed down with some hard object without much concern for appearance. Plain. So plain it looked as though whoever had sent it cared about only one thing—

that the letter arrived.

Addie did not hand it over immediately. She remained beside the bed and continued reading the rest of the day’s schedule in the same steady voice she used every morning. Her eyes occasionally moved toward Anna’s face. Briefly. Lightly. Like someone accustomed both to observing and to waiting for the right moment.

“Breakfast is ready,” Addie continued. “It’s still hot. Eat before it cools.”

Then she paused for one second. Closed the booklet.

And gently placed the paper envelope beside the lock on Anna’s bedside table. She did it casually. As though setting down something unimportant. She did not explain what it was. Did not say where it had come from. She simply put it there. Then turned toward the window and drew the curtain back farther, letting the morning light into the room. The light fell across the bedside table.

Directly onto the dark red wax seal.

Making it impossible not to see. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

At the same moment, at No. 3 Ceylan Street, Jeffery sat beside the window. He had already been in that chair for nearly two hours.

The old blacksmith’s hammering outside had gone from scattered blows to a steady rhythm.

Mrs. Ge had called him downstairs once for breakfast. He had answered. Gone down. Finished the bowl. Come back upstairs. Sat down again. And returned his gaze to the window. He had calculated how long the messenger boy would need to reach the palace side gate.

Walking quickly, less than an hour. What happened after the letter went inside— who received it. Whether it was Addie.

Whether Addie would give it to Anna immediately or wait for the right moment— those things he could not calculate. And Jeffery did not normally calculate what could not be calculated. Yet they remained suspended in his mind. Suspended so persistently that two of his fingers had been rubbing silently over the wood grain of the windowsill for a long time before he noticed.

The letter was already on its way.

Four words.

Tomorrow night, I’ll be here. He had hesitated for three days.

And in the end, he had written the shortest possible version. Because any longer version would have carried everything he had been suppressing during those three days onto the page. And once it was there, he would no longer know whether the words belonged to him—

or to three nights of not sleeping properly.

So he had written only that.

He was here. Jeffery lowered his gaze to the letter opener resting across his lap. The side of his thumb pressed against the spine of the blade. He did not stroke it.

Only held the pressure there.

Wait. He knew how to wait. He had practiced it for seven years.

It had never failed him. But the waiting today tasted nothing like any of the waiting he had known before.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ Anna slowly sat up. At first, she did not notice the letter on the bedside table.

She simply remained there, letting sunlight from the window fall across her. But the moment she sat upright, dizziness washed over her. She had not slept properly for three days. “Addie… can I skip the lesson?” Her voice sounded weak.

One hand pressed against her forehead. Even the question carried resignation. As though she already knew there were many things in this palace she was not allowed to choose. If Addie said no— if she said the rules could not be broken— Anna would simply accept it.

After asking, she fell silent. She seemed to be wondering whether she should tell Addie that she had barely slept for several nights. And why.

Since returning that night, Anna had simply pretended nothing had happened. Then continued surviving inside the palace as always.

Addie did not answer the question immediately.

She turned back toward the window and adjusted the folds of the curtain so the light entered evenly. Then she walked back to the bed. Stopped. And looked directly at the princess holding her forehead. There were many things in Addie’s eyes. None of them became words. She simply looked for a second or two. Then lowered her head slightly.

“I’ll tell the instructor you’re unwell.” Her tone was flat. No unnecessary word. No hesitation. As though she had taken something difficult, folded it into the smallest possible shape, and quietly handled it. And tucked inside that simple answer was another meaning: This was not something you would normally be allowed to choose. But I will make it possible for you. So Anna did not have to thank her.

Did not have to explain. Addie had handled too many things like this for her. She knew when to ask.

And when not to.

Today was a day for not asking. She picked up the thin blanket beside the bed. Shook it once. Then laid one corner gently over Anna’s legs. Her movements were even softer than her voice. As though she were afraid of disturbing something. Then Addie straightened. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bedside table. The glance was so quick it could almost have been accidental. But before she left, she paused beside it. Without saying anything, she moved the envelope a little farther forward. Into the exact place where the morning sunlight would fall directly across it.

The dark red wax seal burned quietly in the light.

“I’ll bring breakfast.” Addie walked toward the door. “It’s hot. It’ll cool soon.”

Then she closed the door gently behind her. So gently that the sound of the latch almost did not exist. Leaving behind only the beam of sunlight. The dark red wax. And the sudden stillness of the room.

The room became so quiet that the presence of the paper envelope against the wooden bedside table seemed to grow clearer. Slowly. Inevitably. Something that would eventually have to be seen. Addie was gone.

Anna was alone again. Quiet enough to hear her own thoughts.

Quiet enough to think far too much. She rubbed at the faint ache in her forehead.

And just as she was preparing to lie down again— she saw it. The letter.

The familiar wax seal.

Except this time, it did not merely look plain. It looked hurried. As though the sender had needed to get it out quickly and no longer cared whether it looked beautiful. Anna reached for the letter.

Her hand trembled slightly. Her heart tightened with it.

What else could he possibly want to say to her? Hadn’t the rejection that night been enough?

She held the letter. And froze. She could not bring herself to open it. She did not know how long she remained like that. Long enough for Addie to return carrying breakfast.

The moment Addie opened the door, she saw.

The tray in her hands held porridge, several small dishes, everything still steaming. She entered. Set the tray carefully on the low table beside the bed. Then lifted her eyes. Toward the princess. Toward the hands holding the envelope in complete stillness. Addie said nothing.

She adjusted the bowl and chopsticks.

Moved the porridge to the most convenient position. Then sat on the small chair beside the bed. Her posture said that she was prepared to wait. No questions. No urging. Simply sitting there. Like a stone that had no intention of moving. And through that silence, telling Anna: There is no one else here. Take your time.

The room was so quiet that only the occasional distant birdcall came through the window.

The letter remained in Anna’s hands. The round seal beneath her thumb. Dark red. Burning quietly. Waiting for trembling fingers to break it open.

Addie’s eyes rested on the wax for one second. Then moved back to Anna’s face. To the expression that held three days of shame and three nights without sleep. Her lashes shifted faintly. The small movement of someone who had swallowed a hundred possible words and chosen not to say any of them. Instead, Addie reached out.

Pushed the bowl of porridge a little closer to Anna. Very gently. Very slowly. “While it’s hot.”

Her voice was barely above a breath. “Take one sip first. Your hands will stop shaking.” She did not look at the letter.

Did not say what it was. Afterward, she lowered her eyes again. Rested her hands in her lap. Relaxed her entire posture. Removing every trace of pressure that might make Anna feel watched. Leaving only the letter. And the dark red wax waiting to be opened.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ No. 3 Ceylan Street. By then, Jeffery had already gone outside once.

He walked toward the eastern quarter. Went all the way to the horse market.

Stood there for a quarter of an hour.

And did not look at a single horse. Then turned around and came back. He had not gone there to look at horses. He knew that perfectly well.

On the way back through Ceylan Street, he bought one of the little roasted flatbreads that always made Mrs. Ge complain:

“That won’t fill you up.”

He ate it while walking. Returned to No. 3. Returned to the room where he had already spent the entire morning beside the window. Sat down. Straightened the hem of his coat. Then looked outside again. The outline of the palace was clear in the morning light. Much clearer than on misty days. Jeffery watched it.

His right index finger rested against the windowsill. Still. No tapping. No rubbing.

Just resting there. But the fire inside his eyes had risen closer to the surface than it had on any other day.

Close enough that even he could almost feel the heat coming from somewhere deep behind his eyes. A clear, burning focus he could no longer completely contain. He was waiting for a reply. Jeffery had always been capable of waiting. And yet today—

he had sat beside the window for less than half an hour before standing.

Walking to the table.

Sitting there. Standing again. Returning to the window. Sitting back down in the chair. Unfastening the top button of his coat. Fastening it again. Then placing both hands firmly on his knees as though ordering them to stay where they belonged. He lowered his eyes to those hands.

Hands that had spent seven years on the road.

Callused from a sword. Hands that had measured the width of countless city gates. Run over the bones and muscles of countless horses. Measured the gap in that wall for her. Held her hand. Cradled her face. And now— they simply rested on his knees. Unable to do anything. Except wait. Jeffery drew in a deep breath.

Closed his eyes. Let the breath leave very slowly. Let the waiting settle again. Back into the shape he had spent seven years learning to give it. And he waited.

Quietly. Steadily.

Just like the letter itself— somewhere he could not see— waiting just as steadily to be opened.