The morning air tasted of cinnamon and dew, and yet Ravine felt a heaviness pressing into her lungs. The question still echoed from the night before, and she couldn't let it go.
"Who is Maelon Serre?"
She hadn't meant to speak it aloud, not at the breakfast table with the window cracked open and Arilenth glowing gentle outside. But Arana, sitting across from her, heard the weight in her voice.
Arana placed her cup down. "You don't have to rush into this. We don't have to chase ghosts if it hurts."
Ravine looked away. "But what if the ghost is me?"
They didn't speak for a while. Then Arana stood and placed a hand briefly on Ravine's shoulder. "I'm going out to see what the market looks like. If you want answers, we can look for them. But only when you're ready."
Ravine stayed behind in the quiet house, her fingers curled around her cup. The silence pressed against her like old fabric—soft, but suffocating.
When Arana returned that afternoon, she had nothing new to offer, only a calm presence and a look that said, this is your choice.
"If we begin asking," she said, "we have to be prepared for the truth—whatever form it takes."
Ravine nodded.
So, they went.
They tried asking the florist at the corner first. The woman gave a polite smile, then stiffened at the name. "I'm sorry. I can't help you," she said quickly, returning to her arrangement.
Next, a pair of seamstresses at the weaving station. One looked away. The other pretended not to hear.
Ravine and Arana exchanged a glance. There was a tension now, a wall they hadn't anticipated. It wasn't anger. It was silence sharpened into avoidance.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the lanterns began to flicker to life, they turned into an old cafe tucked between a pair of winding streets. A chime announced their entrance.
The man behind the counter looked up from a glass he was drying. His beard was silver, and his eyes had the look of someone who had watched the world change too many times.
"Evening," he said. "Find a seat. I'll be with you in a minute."
They sat near the window, and Arana ordered two cups of coffee when he came over. The man left, and the cafe's gentle hush wrapped around them.
"They won't speak about him," Ravine whispered. "Why? What did he do?"
"Or what do they think he did?" Arana replied. "Sometimes, memory chooses its villains."
Their words weren't meant for the cafe owner, but he had paused nearby, setting down their drinks with a quiet care.
"You said his name," the man said. "Maelon Serre."
They both looked up.
"Did you know him?" Arana asked.
The old man didn't answer right away. He sat across from them slowly, as if lowering a weight onto the bench.
"Everyone here knew him. Doesn't mean they speak about him. Not anymore."
Ravine leaned forward. "Please. We just want to understand."
The man looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once.
"He was the brightest among them. Had the kind of ambition that left shadows behind. He was clever. Always looking where others wouldn't dare. They said he had the mind of a hundred scholars. But that mind... it pointed him toward the Dead Zone."
Ravine's breath caught.
The man continued, voice low. "It never stops raining there. The trees don't grow. The soil's black as sorrow. Nothing wants to live in a place like that, but Maelon believed there were answers buried in the ruins. So, he formed the expedition—six of them. Spent years gathering the right people. Planning everything. He even convinced Niva to go."
Her name hung in the air like perfume.
The man looked down. "They left together. None of them came back. Not really."
Ravine's fingers tightened on her cup.
"People blame him," the man said quietly. "Because he was the one who dreamed too loudly. Because he took our bloom-bearer into a place no one comes back from whole."
Arana said nothing, only watched Ravine with careful eyes.
"We don't speak of him," the man added. "Because grief has sharp corners. Because silence feels easier than forgiveness. But we all remember. We just pretend we don't."
He stood slowly. "You've stirred a quiet place. But maybe it's time."
And then he returned behind the counter, leaving the two women at their table, the truth sitting quietly between them like a ghost finally named.