The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, yet the city wasn't asleep. Somewhere, laughter and the sounds of flutes and guitars rose from a tavern. Fires crackled behind shuttered windows. A dog barked at nothing.
And he walked.
Not towards anywhere, just going straight. Simple.
Walking past the painted houses where faint lights shone through the windows, walls stained with old rain and older stories. Past abandoned children beside shuttered walls, empty stomach and wide eyes.
He tried not to think about the questions that haunted him, but they followed him anyway.
He watched them—
Children chasing shadows beneath broken streetlights,
Their laughter thin, brave,
Echoing against the silence of empty bellies.
He glanced at the houses nearby,
Windows glowing with warmth,
Laughter spilling like light—
Then back at the children,
Barefoot in a world that had forgotten them.
And still, he walked on,
Eyes forward, heart closed.
Pretending he hadn't seen the truth laid bare in the cold.
He halted before the inn and slipped inside. A flood of warm light washed over him, mingling with the scent of roasting meat, the clamor of drunken laughter, and the lilting song of bards. Yet he paid it no mind. Silent and deliberate, he strode to the front desk and let five cold coins fall from his gloved hand. They landed in the innkeeper's palm with a soft clink, her eyes widening in startled wonder.
"One room for the night," He said.
The inn keeper smiled widely, her eyes sparkling with joy as she received the huge payment.
"You're such a good guy for paying this much for just one room." The innkeeper let out a soft chuckle, her fingers closing over the coins before slipping them out of sight
Her words echoed like a curse, summoning the questions that had lurked in the hollows of his mind, restless and unresolved.
Good guy, huh…
The innkeeper guided him upstairs, her footsteps soft against the worn wooden steps. At the end of the hall, she opened a door with a quiet push. The room was plain—walls bare, shadows stretching across the floor. A narrow bed stood in the corner, beside a small table and a single chair, their surfaces worn smooth by time and use.
He stepped inside, taking it in with a silent nod. It would do.
"Thank you," he said.
The innkeeper gave a brief smile, then disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone with the silence.
As he laid on the bed, questions haunted him again.
"A good guy…me? Is that all it takes? Just handing extra gold makes me a saint?"
Exhaustion started taking over and he slowly forget what he was thinking. Eyes burned, lids getting heavy. The room was quite, save for the slow ticking of the clock–each second louder than the last.
The ceiling blurred, the corners of the room darkened. His breath slow, deepened.
Then the ticking stopped, or he stopped hearing it.
Sleep took him—not because he wanted it, but because there was nothing left to think.
Morning arrived not with grace, but with a pale persistence that crept through the shutters. Light spread across the floor like a slow confession, revealing dust, cracked wood, and the stillness of things left unsaid.
He lay there, eyes open, not to greet the day but to question it. The world outside stirred—distant voices, a bark, the clatter of hooves—but none of it touched him. What was goodness, really, in a world that moved on so indifferently?
He rose at last, not out of purpose, but habit. Another morning. Another chance to be right—or wrong—all over again.
He donned his old black robe, walked out of the room and out of the inn. The moment he stepped out, his skin was kissed by the sunlight, it was a bright day. As usual, the city buzzed with life—vendors shouting their wares, children laughing, the rumble of carriages and wagons over the uneven cobblestones, soldiers' footsteps echoing through the streets… and beneath it all, the questions that haunted him. No matter how loud the streets became, they always found a way to whisper through the noise.
"Still wearing that robe huh…"
The voice came from left–light, teasing and a hint of concern.
"It's been so long, Caliste."
Caliste turned his head and saw her leaning casually on a wall near an alley.
"Yvaine." He said.
She was still as pretty as he remembered her. She was the kind of beautiful that didn't shout–it bloomed.
Her pale skin, like a porcelain crafted by the finest artisan. Her blue eyes, like cobalt flame. Her hair, flowing like a dark river of silk. Her rosy cheeks, like soft petals brushed by morning light.
"What are you doing here?" Caliste said and stepped closer towards Yvaine.
"What else? To find the person I cherish the most, duh~"
He stood there, a quiet warmth stirring as a faint smile brushed his lips.
Yvaine stepped and walked closer to Caliste, tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, staining the rose of her skin. She clutched his robe as if afraid to let go, burying her face against his chest.
"I found you… captain." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.