He was referred to as a ghost by the villagers.
One stormless night, a man dressed in black and half-concealed face under a tattered travel hood came to the outskirts of the town. He gave no name, asked no questions, and made a payment in coins that were far too pristine to be from a location like this.
However, long before he entered her life again, Charlotte—now Lina—sensed the shift.
At that time, she was 28. Her eyes were keener than they had been in the gilded rooms of her former life, and her hands were callused. Her smile was seldom seen, ironic, and usually saved for her younger brother Finn, whose aspirations of living a different life had become more common. Further comprehensive. He referred to velvet courts and glass towers, as well as maps that Charlotte had previously studied by candlelight.
Now, though, the dream had entered her universe.
She didn't discover him near the ruined chapel by the pine grove until dusk, when he was just standing there. As though he were trying to find a noise he hadn't heard in years.
"You're late," Charlotte said, crossing her arms.
The man rotated slowly. His gaze—now older, edged with memory and fatigue—met hers. The pain was instant and all-consuming.
He spoke her name as if it were a homecoming rather than a whisper.
"Charlotte."
Instead, she just tilted her head and said, "You took your time."
He dropped to his knees out of grief, not out of desperation or formality. Like a knight kneeling to a once-lost sword, he pressed his forehead against her hand.
"I told you I'd bring you back."
"And I said I was only beginning," she whispered.
Finn swung out from the trees behind them, holding a wooden sword and wearing an expression that was too familiar to be accidental.