Rhett found her sitting in the atrium behind the west wing, exactly where he expected her to be. The frost hadn't lifted yet, and the moon was still pinned high in the sky like a slow-dying eye. The stone bench beneath her was dusted with dew, but Camille sat as if carved from it.
No cloak. No gloves.
Just silence.
And grief.
He didn't speak at first.
He let the moment stretch between them, taut and quiet like a string pulled to the edge of snapping.
Camille didn't look up.
"You followed me," she murmured.
"You didn't close the bond."
"I didn't want to be alone."
"Then why did you come here?"
"Because this place forgets things."
Rhett stepped forward, boots crunching frost.
"Not you," he said. "You remember everything."
She gave a breathless laugh, bitter and soft. "That's the problem."
He sat beside her.
Close.
But not touching.
The silence returned, deeper now.
Then she whispered, "Do you think I'm someone else?"
His jaw tightened. "Why are you asking that?"
