Lucien stood beside her, arms crossed. "It's abstract. Could refer to music, emotion… or memory."
She hugged her knees, chin resting on them. "Maybe… it's not something we find."
He looked down at her.
"Maybe," she continued softly, "it's something we *remember.*"
A long silence passed. The waves continued rolling, gentle and steady.
Lucien's voice, when it came, was quieter than she'd ever heard it.
"When I was nine, Father left for battle. He didn't return for almost a year."
She looked up at him.
"I was angry. At him. At everything. Then one day, Mother sat beside me on the stairs. She held my hand. Said, 'When someone you love is far away, close your eyes and listen. If your heart is quiet… you'll still hear them.'"
Evelisse's throat tightened.
Lucien didn't say anything else.
She stood slowly and reached out.
He looked startled, but then—after a beat—took her hand.
Together, they stood still, eyes closed, letting the wind curl around them.
And in that silence…
