SIGRID

The narrow black iron bed, wooden walls, the ceiling with slightly neglected beams, the old armchair by the window, and a few wooden trunks in the corner.

Everything looks worn down, broken—but not dirty, not unpleasant.

“I remembered my parents' cabin. Last night, I brought you here. It's a place I've always wanted to return to,” he confessed, and my heart squeezed at his words.

He hasn’t outright said it, but I think his parents are dead. Maybe they died trying to save him when he was taken. Maybe they couldn’t bear the pain of losing him. I don’t know, and I don’t want to rip open those wounds.

“Did you spend the whole night cleaning? If it was abandoned, where the hell did you get these sheets?” I frowned, suddenly realizing something obvious.

“Well… no one was here. I— I didn’t even think about it. I just needed to rest with you. My mind was… troubled,” he admitted, sitting up, his gaze sweeping over the details of the room.

“Silas, how could you think nothing would change