The next morning dawned with a sky thick with clouds—soft, pale gray, like the world itself had paused to breathe.
Ravine woke before Arana. She sat near the window of their small inn room, watching the mist curl along the cobblestones outside. The music from the previous evening still echoed faintly in her head, like a ghost she wasn't ready to let go of.
There was something different in the air today.
When Arana finally stirred and dressed in silence, Ravine turned to her and said, "We're still not done here, are we?"
"No," Arana said simply. "There's one more place."
She didn't explain, and Ravine didn't ask. Some things didn't need words.
They walked together through Elessyr's waking streets, past the bakery with the mural, past the old music shop, past homes with shutters half-opened to the slow morning. Every corner felt steeped in memory now.
Eventually, they came to a long, narrow bridge that stretched over a quiet stream. Beyond it, the trees thickened, and the town gave way to silence.
"This used to be mine," Arana said. "I used to come here when I wanted the world to stop speaking."
Ravine watched her, sensing something unspoken just beneath the surface. "Why are we here?"
Arana didn't answer right away. She stepped onto the bridge, her fingers trailing along the old railing.
"I never told you what happened after Tovin left."
Ravine stood beside her, listening.
"He wrote to me. Not often. But when he did, his words were always full. Like he was trying to pour everything in before it all disappeared. He said music wasn't about being heard—it was about being felt. He said one day, the world would feel him."
A bird chirped somewhere behind them. Distant. Fleeting.
"I wrote back once," Arana continued, voice quiet. "But I never sent it. I was angry. Not at him. At myself. For letting them forget him. For letting myself forget him, too."
She closed her eyes.
"I came back once. After the expedition disappeared. I didn't tell anyone. I just stood here. And I swore to carry him until someone else remembered him, too."
Ravine reached out, gently placing her hand on Arana's.
"You did," she said. "You carried all of them."
Arana's shoulders trembled—not quite crying, not quite still.
"It's not enough," she whispered. "I was born into a family that never saw me. I grew up being invisible. And when I found someone who saw everything, I let him vanish."
"No," Ravine said, her voice firm. "You didn't. He's still here. In every note. In every person who remembers his name. You kept that alive."
The silence stretched, and Arana finally opened her eyes.
"We should leave soon," she said. "Delnira waits."
Ravine nodded. But as they turned to go, Arana paused one last time on the bridge.
She looked back, not at the town, but at the stream below—at the way the water moved gently over stones, carrying leaves and shadow alike.
"I don't want to be remembered for what I couldn't save," she said.
Ravine met her eyes. "Then let's remember you for what you did."
They walked away from the bridge, side by side.
The silence behind them didn't follow.
It stayed where it belonged—among the echoes and the water, where the song still waited to be heard.