--The evening flows through Nevermore"
It was late when Agnes reached Sid's room.
The corridor was quiet, the old lanterns burning low with a sleepy orange glow. Most students were already asleep, yet her heart beat faster with every step — not from fear this time, but from something else she couldn't name.
She hesitated at his door for a moment before knocking lightly.
"Come in," his calm voice answered from inside.
She pushed the door open. The room smelled faintly of old paper and candle wax — warm, familiar now. Sid was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a candle floating mid-air in front of him, its flame swaying gently like it was breathing.
He looked up and smiled faintly. "You're late."
Agnes smiled too, closing the door behind her. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd notice."
Sid chuckled softly and waved his hand — the candle settled gently back onto the table. "I notice everything, Agnes."
"I know," she said, lowering herself to sit near him. "That's what scares me sometimes."
He tilted his head, curious. "Why would that scare you?"
"Because... if you see everything," she whispered, eyes fixed on the floor, "then you might see the parts of me I'm trying to hide."
Sid was silent for a long moment — not judging, not asking, just watching her. Then, gently, he said,
"I see them, yes... but I don't think any part of you needs to hide."
His voice was so soft, it nearly broke something inside her.
Agnes blinked hard, trying to smile. "You always say things like that. Like you already know what I need to hear."
"Maybe that's what I'm here for," Sid said, his tone light but true.
They sat together in silence for a while. The candlelight danced across the walls, painting gold across Sid's hair and a soft shadow across Agnes's cheek.
Then Sid reached for the book — Ryuzen — and placed it between them.
"Want to see something?"
Agnes nodded.
He opened the book, and instead of words, faint lights shimmered over the page — images, scenes of magic from long ago, like memories trapped in ink.
"This book holds everything written," Sid said quietly, "but sometimes... it shows what we feel instead of what we ask."
Agnes stared, fascinated. "So right now... it's showing?"
He met her eyes. "Us."
The light on the page pulsed — and there it was, faint but real: two blurred silhouettes, sitting close beneath the moonlight, just as they were now.
Agnes's breath caught. "That's... us?"
Sid smiled softly. "Looks like the book knows something before we do."
She didn't answer. Her eyes stayed on the glowing page, her fingers trembling slightly. For the first time in a long while, she felt something calm and alive stirring inside — warmth, hope, maybe even... happiness.
When she finally looked up, Sid was watching her — not the way others did, but as if he was *listening* through her silence.
"Sid," she said quietly, "do you ever get tired... of being alone?"
He didn't answer right away. He leaned back slightly, eyes wandering toward the window. "I used to. But then I learned something."
"What?"
"That sometimes," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "being alone helps you see people better. And when someone finally understands you, it feels... worth the wait."
Agnes's throat tightened. "So you've been waiting?"
He smiled faintly. "Maybe."
The candlelight flickered again — brighter this time, as if reacting to them.
Agnes lowered her eyes, her voice soft as a sigh. "I don't want to disappear anymore."
Sid turned toward her fully now. "You won't," he said firmly.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because," he said gently, "you're seen now."
Agnes blinked — and suddenly, it wasn't about the training, the powers, or the magic.
It was about them.
The silence stretched again, warm and alive, and when Sid finally smiled, Agnes felt her chest ache with something too tender to name.
That night, they didn't train.
They just talked — about nothing and everything: childhood memories, books they loved, the stars outside the window. Every small thing felt precious, every glance felt longer than it should.
When Agnes finally stood to leave, Sid followed her to the door.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
She smiled softly. "Only if you promise not to read my thoughts again."
He smirked, a little playful. "No promises."
Agnes rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling as she turned to go.
Just before leaving, she looked back once — and saw him watching her again, quietly, with that same calm warmth that made her forget every shadow she'd ever known.
--Next evening--
The night had fallen softly over Nevermore, wrapping the old building in its usual veil of mystery.
From the window of Sid's room, the forest looked like a sleeping ocean — dark, endless, and alive with whispers of wind.
Sid was sitting at his desk when he heard the familiar knock.
He didn't even have to look up. "Come in, Agnes."
She stepped in quietly, her steps lighter than usual. There was something different about her tonight — her expression, though still shy, carried a flicker of calm confidence. The faint shimmer around her body — the trace of her invisibility — was gone.
Sid noticed immediately. "You did it."
Agnes's lips curved into a small smile. "Almost. I don't fade anymore… not unless I want to."
"That's more than almost," Sid said, setting his book aside. "That's control."
Agnes sat down across from him, folding her hands on the table. "It's strange," she said softly. "All this time, I thought my powers were the problem. But maybe it was never the magic… it was me."
Sid nodded slowly. "Magic always reflects the heart. When it's unstable, it's not the spell that breaks — it's the person."
She looked at him — his calm eyes, steady voice — and felt that quiet admiration again. He spoke like someone who had already walked through the storm she was still learning to survive.
"Then how did you do it?" she asked. "How did you learn to stay calm with… everything inside you?"
Sid hesitated for a moment. His eyes drifted toward the serpent curled on the bookshelf — Ryuchi — who seemed half-asleep, coiled in silence.
Finally, he said, "I didn't. Not at first."
Agnes leaned forward, curious. "You mean… you lost control?"
A faint, sad smile crossed his lips. "Once. And it cost me more than I expected."
He didn't look at her when he said it — his eyes had gone distant, as if watching something that wasn't in the room.
Agnes wanted to ask, but something in his tone made her stop. Instead, she said quietly, "You don't have to tell me."
He looked up then, meeting her eyes again. "I want to."
There was a pause, then he said, "When I was a child, I found my mother's book — Ryuzen. I wasn't supposed to touch it. But curiosity…" He gave a small chuckle. "It's dangerous, especially for someone like me. I opened it, and the book showed me everything — memories, knowledge, every kind of magic there is. It nearly consumed me. My mother saved me, but ever since that day, she sealed part of the book's power inside me. That's what I carry now — the echo of black magic."
Agnes listened quietly, her eyes wide but soft. "That's… a lot for anyone to carry."
He nodded. "That's why I stay calm. Because if I don't… I might lose it again."
The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was full of something fragile and real.
Agnes reached out instinctively, then stopped halfway, unsure. Her hand hovered near his, fingers trembling slightly.
Sid noticed — his eyes flicked to her hand, then back to her face. For a moment, he didn't move either. Then, slowly, he turned his palm upward — wordlessly inviting hers.
Her fingers brushed his — light as breath — and rested there.
It wasn't a romantic gesture in the loud sense of the word. But in that quiet room, with the candle's soft flame between them and the shadows leaning close, it felt more intimate than anything else.
Agnes smiled faintly. "You always seem unshakable, Sid. Like nothing can touch you."
Sid looked down at their joined hands. "Maybe that's because no one ever tried to."
Her breath caught — not from surprise, but from something deeper.
She didn't know what to say, so she didn't. The silence said enough.
And when the candle flickered, throwing a golden glow across their faces, she realized she'd never felt this safe before.
When the clock struck midnight, Sid finally said softly, "You should rest."
Agnes nodded but didn't move. "Just a little longer," she whispered.
So they sat there — hands still together, saying nothing — as the night stretched around them.
The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was warm.
Outside, the moon climbed higher, silver light spilling into the room like a quiet blessing.
For the first time in her life, Agnes didn't feel invisible.
The candle burned low, its flame a tiny heart of gold trembling between them.
Neither Sid nor Agnes moved for a long while. The air was still, and in that stillness, something gentle lingered — not magic, but something older, quieter, more human.
Agnes's fingers were still resting lightly on Sid's hand, and though she could have pulled away, she didn't. His hand was steady, warm, grounding her in a way she'd never known before.
Sid looked at her — not with curiosity or study this time, but with something softer. "You're quiet tonight," he said finally.
Agnes smiled faintly. "You talk enough for both of us."
He chuckled, low and short. "That's new."
"What?"
"You teasing me."
She looked down, embarrassed. "I wasn't—"
"You were," he said, smiling slightly. "And it's fine. I like it."
The words came out so casually that she blinked, caught off guard. There was no hidden meaning, no game — just honesty, simple and real.
Agnes looked away, her face warming. "You make it sound easy to talk to you."
"That's because it is," he replied quietly. "You just never tried before."
She met his eyes again, and for a heartbeat, the world outside the room disappeared — no Nevermore, no other students, just the two of them in the circle of candlelight.
"Sid," she whispered, "can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"What if… what if my powers vanish one day? What if I'm not special anymore?"
Sid leaned back slightly, his eyes reflecting the small flame. "Then I'd still see you."
Her breath hitched. "Why?"
He thought for a moment before answering. "Because powers don't make people shine. Their heart does. And yours…" He hesitated, his voice softening, "…is hard to look away from."
Agnes felt her heart flutter — painfully, beautifully. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll believe them."
Sid smiled gently, almost sadly. "Good. Because they're true."
The silence that followed was different this time — heavier with emotion, yet peaceful. She couldn't look away, and neither could he.
A soft sound broke the quiet — Ryuchi,the white serpent, stirred on the shelf, raising his head lazily. His golden eyes flicked between the two of them as if understanding something before they did.
"You two are loud," the serpent murmured in a voice like silk.
Agnes gasped, startled. "He—he talks?"
Sid smirked slightly. "He complains more than he talks."
Ryuchi coiled a little tighter, his tone dry. "And yet, you still keep me in your room to watch your dramatic human moments."
Agnes couldn't help but laugh, a soft, musical sound that filled the room. Sid looked at her, and the sight made something tighten quietly in his chest — her laughter, unguarded and real, was something rare.
Ryuchi yawned, curling back down. "Try not to wake me next time," he said lazily, before going still again.
The laughter faded into a quiet warmth. Agnes brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's… not what I expected."
Sid tilted his head. "Neither am I, probably."
She smiled, her gaze lingering on him. "No… you're not."
Minutes turned into an hour. They didn't realize how late it had gotten until the candle flickered down to its last inch.
Agnes stretched slightly, glancing toward the window. The moonlight painted her face silver, her eyes distant but soft.
"You ever think," she murmured, "how strange it is that people find each other at all?"
Sid nodded slowly. "It's like two stars drifting through the dark, somehow ending up in the same orbit."
She looked at him, her voice almost a whisper. "Then maybe I found my orbit."
Sid froze — not because of the words, but because of the way she said them: quiet, unsure, but full of truth.
He didn't reply. He couldn't. But something in his eyes softened — the usual calm replaced by something almost fragile.
For a while, neither spoke again.
The candle finally died, but neither of them moved to relight it. The moonlight was enough — pale and gentle, illuminating their faces just enough to see each other clearly in the dark.
Agnes whispered, "Sid?"
"Hm?"
"I don't want this to end."
"It doesn't have to," he said quietly. "Not yet."
They stayed like that — in the half-dark, sharing words and silences — until dawn began to slip into the sky.
For the first time in her life, Agnes didn't feel like fading.
And for the first time in his life, Sid feels like a normal, totally simple person to someone,the special one.
The candle had melted into nothing but a pool of wax. The flame was gone, but the room was still alive — silvered by moonlight that spilled in through the balcony doors.
Sid hadn't moved for a long time, and neither had Agnes. The silence between them had grown quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been said without words.
The serpent, Ryuchi, was asleep again — coiled like a white ribbon near the windowsill, his faint breathing blending with the soft wind that drifted through the curtains.
Agnes rested her chin on her knees, gazing out at the sky. "It's almost morning," she whispered.
Sid turned his head slightly toward her. "Do you want to leave?"
She shook her head, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. "Not yet."
Her voice carried a kind of peace that Sid hadn't heard before — calm, fragile, but whole. He studied her for a moment, the light catching in her hair like frost.
For once, Sid wasn't thinking about black magic, the book, or the weight he carried. He was just there — in that small, fleeting moment, with her.
"Do you know," he said softly, "when I was younger, I used to watch the sunrise every day."
Agnes looked up at him. "Why?"
"Because it reminded me that even darkness has an ending."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "That sounds like something a poet would say."
Sid chuckled. "Maybe I'm one when no one's looking."
"You're not as unreadable as you think, Sid Edward."
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," she said quietly, turning her gaze back to the window. "You act calm, but sometimes… when you talk about your past, your eyes change. It's like you're standing somewhere else entirely."
Sid was silent for a while. The observation was too precise to ignore.
Then he said, half-whispering, "Maybe that's because I never truly left that place."
Agnes looked at him again, her expression softening. "Then maybe it's time someone helps you come back."
Their eyes met — not in the way that demands or expects anything, but in a way that *recognizes*.
For the first time, Sid didn't look away.
The first trace of dawn began to slip through the clouds, turning the forest outside a pale grey-blue. The air grew colder, and Agnes shivered lightly without realizing it.
Sid noticed. Without a word, he rose and pulled a blanket from his bed, draping it gently over her shoulders. His touch was light, careful — almost reverent.
Agnes looked up at him. "You didn't have to—"
"I know," he interrupted softly, "but I wanted to."
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before — not the calm of a teacher, but the quiet warmth of someone who cared more than he understood.
She lowered her gaze, clutching the edge of the blanket close. "Thank you."
Sid smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
They sat together again, this time side by side, watching the first rays of morning paint the mountains in gold.
Agnes whispered, "It's strange. A few weeks ago, I couldn't even control my own powers. Now, I'm sitting here watching the sunrise with the calmest person in the world."
Sid turned to her. "You did all the work, Agnes. I just… reminded you to believe in yourself."
"Maybe that's what I needed most," she said softly, "someone to remind me."
The wind brushed past them, carrying the scent of morning dew. Her hair fluttered against his shoulder, and for a moment, she didn't move away. Neither did he.
Sid spoke after a long silence. "You know… if you ever lose control again, I'll be here."
Agnes turned to him slowly. "You promise?"
His eyes met hers — steady, calm, endless. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
She smiled, small but real. "Then I'll hold you to it."
The light outside grew stronger, washing the darkness from the sky.
When Agnes finally stood, her voice was quiet, almost sad. "I should go before the others wake up."
Sid nodded, standing with her. "I'll see you tonight?"
"Of course," she said, her smile faint but full.
She walked to the door but paused just before leaving. The light caught her face as she turned back, her eyes soft, unreadable.
"Sid?"
"Yes?"
"I think," she said quietly, "you're not as alone as you used to be."
And with that, she slipped out, leaving behind only the faint scent of morning air and the soft echo of her words.
Sid stood there for a moment, the room now bathed in gold.
He smiled — the smallest, rarest kind — and whispered to no one, "Maybe I'm not."