The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn't feel peaceful, but oppressive. Like the air had forgotten how to move.
Reyan sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving.
Grey light filtered through the moth-eaten curtains, dust floating in the stillness. His eyes were open, but unfocused, as if staring into something that wasn't there. The silence wasn't empty—it was screaming.
His hand reached toward the violin case leaning against the wall. Fingers hesitated above the latch. He didn't open it.
The calendar on the wall hadn't been flipped in months. But the date glared at him.
May 5th.
The anniversary.
A memory forced its way in—his mother's voice singing softly in the front seat, his father's laugh rumbling in the air, the rush of cold wind through an open window.
Then: metal crushing, glass shattering, the world tumbling into black.
He blinked and the memory vanished.
The violin case remained unopened.
He got up. Slowly, like gravity had gotten stronger overnight.
He brushed his teeth without tasting the paste. He put on clothes without noticing what they were. Then he opened the drawer where he kept the letter. The same one he'd written and rewritten a hundred times.
"To anyone who finds me—"
He folded it and slipped it into his coat.
Today, it was supposed to end.
But just like every other attempt, he hesitated. Something always stopped him.
The feeling.
That strange warmth.
It had no source. No reason. But every time Reyan tried to leave, the sensation would wash over him. Like someone was gently pulling him back. A breeze whispering, not yet.
He thought it was guilt at first. Or cowardice.
But guilt didn't feel like comfort.
And cowardice didn't feel like… light.
He walked to the bus stop with the violin slung over one shoulder. The case was worn, the handle taped. His shoes were soaked from a puddle he didn't bother avoiding.
The ride to Sahana was quiet.
Outside, the world shifted. Grey city blocks gave way to wide fields. Then cracked earth. Then slopes of barren rock. Mountains loomed in the distance, jagged and raw, like the earth had torn itself open.
Reyan stepped off the bus and felt the cold immediately.
Sahana.
The place he once called sacred.
He began to walk, tracing the path he hadn't followed since his parents died. As a child, this place had been full of laughter. Now, it was only echoes.
He stopped near the cliff.
The same spot.
The place where he'd first considered ending it all.
He set the violin down, gently. The same way he used to place it in his mother's lap when she sat on the porch and asked him to play.
He didn't cry.
He hadn't in years.
Instead, he stared at the edge. The wind tousled his hair. The sky overhead was bruised with clouds, like it was holding back tears.
He took a deep breath—
And then, he heard it.
A sob.
A soft, broken sob.
His eyes turned.
There, just a few paces away, sat a girl. Young. Red-haired. She was curled forward on a bench, her camera in her lap, tears falling fast down her cheeks.
Reyan's body froze.
She didn't notice him. She looked… lost. Not like someone who was crying out of inconvenience, but someone whose soul had cracked.
Her pain was raw. Honest.
And then—
That feeling.
The warmth.
It surged inside him.
Not just a flicker. Not just a faint pull. But like a current rushing through his chest. As if the light he'd always felt… was suddenly here.
His heartbeat raced.
He didn't believe in fate.
But this—
This couldn't be coincidence.
She looked up. Their eyes met.
And he felt it again.
That unspoken echo.
Like he had known her before knowing her.
Her lips parted slightly, as if she felt it too.
Reyan took a step forward.
His voice didn't work. But his body moved.
He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and, without a word, offered it.
She stared. Then reached out with trembling fingers.
And as her hand brushed his—
The warmth surged.
Not faint.
Not foreign.
Familiar.
He hadn't planned this.
But suddenly…
He wasn't sure if he could jump after all.
Not when someone else's heart might be beating inside him.