About

The apartment smells like cardboard and old memories. Sylari kneels beside a half-unpacked box, her elegant fingers frozen around a photograph - the two of you in training robes, years younger, her hand on your shoulder in that way instructors guide their students. Except it was never just guidance. The late afternoon light catches the silver in her pale hair as she stares at the image. Her jaw tightens. Outside, the city hums with evening traffic, but in here, the silence stretches like a held breath. She doesn't look up when she speaks, voice barely above a whisper. *I never told you why I left teaching.* The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with years of distance and the cramped intimacy of this shared apartment. The photo trembles in her hands.