The night was bitterly cold. The moist air crept through the cracks of the old stones, rustling the leaves that had gathered in the corners like forgotten memories. Moonlight spilled in silver ribbons through the crumbled roof of the ruined watchtower, casting shadows across the stone floor where Claire and Ken lay, a few feet apart.
Ken had done his best to prepare their bedding, neatly arranging what little they had, but as the night deepened, so did the chill. Their cloaks were all they had to keep the cold at bay.
Claire lay with her back turned, arms tucked close to her chest, trying to suppress the shiver crawling up her spine. Her feet ached from the cold, so she pressed them against each other, hoping friction would grant her some warmth.
From a short distance behind her, Ken let out a quiet breath.
"I can't sleep," he muttered.
Claire blinked, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the dim moonlight. "Cold?"
"Very," he replied, a soft chuckle escaping. "Also… this place smells like burnt regrets."
She huffed a laugh, unable to help herself. "You're oddly poetic for someone who tried to roast wild cassava on a twig."
"Hey," he said, mock-offended. "I stand by my culinary choices. And I'm not the one who tried to murder a poor branch."
She let out a small giggle. Their laughter faded gently into the wind, which whispered past the old stones around them.
A still silence followed, broken only by the wind whispering through the cracks.
Ken continued, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "But this cold… it's different. At least I have company now."
Claire blinked again, slowly shifting to see his expression. "Sounds like you've been through this a lot…"
"You could say this isn't my first time". Ken said with a soft smirk, eyes reflecting a distant world.
Claire remained quiet for a moment, her thoughts brushing against the mystery of his words. She didn't speak. She just watched him, wondering what kind of past he carried behind that ever-curious gaze.
He went on, voice low. "My mom used to say this a lot—that the one who stands the cold will never fall". He paused, smiling faintly. "I never really understood what she meant back then… but now, I think I do."
He smiled, though his eyes carried something sad.
Claire noticed the change in his tone, the softness in his words. It was the first time she had seen this Ken—the one who wasn't hiding behind humor or wit. A side of him she hadn't seen in the light of day was now surfacing in the quiet of night. There was a history there—one he hadn't shared.
She asked, almost without meaning to, even though she sensed she shouldn't,
"Your mother?"
Ken gave a soft hum. "Hmm…"
He didn't add more, and Claire didn't press further. Instead, she let the quiet fill the gap.
"I can't actually read you," she said at last. "Sometimes… you sound a lot older than you look."
Ken burst into sudden laughter. "Hahaha! Then how old do I look?"
Claire, raising an eyebrow, teased, "Maybe under twelve?"
Ken grinned, "Bing bong! You're right—I'm twelve. So, Princess, how old you can be? Twenty-five? Thirty?" His grin widened.
She shot him a glare. "Oh wow. My bad that I look that old." She squinted at him, almost in mock betrayal.
Ken raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, sorry! Just teasing." He grinned.
"I'm eighteen, by the way… not that old." Claire answered looking at him.
Then, more casually, he asked, "So where are you planning to go now?"
The question caught her off guard. Her expression shifted without her realizing. Because she didn't have an answer. Not really. Her mind churned—
Where am I going now?
What's going to happen from here?
Ken was watching. He could read it on her face.
He stretched, yawned, and turned over, pulling his cloak tighter. "Alright. Now I'm finally feeling sleepy. Goodnight."
"Yeah. Goodnight," Claire murmured, turning back toward the wall and closing her eyes.
But sleep didn't come. Not easily. His question lingered like fog inside her mind.
What am I trying to do?
Why didn't I let the guards know I was here?
What do you actually want, Claire…?
She whispered the last line to herself, voice barely audible.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the edges of her cloak, sweeping through her hair like a whisper too close. A shiver rolled through her body.
"You know what you're doing, don't you?
Who are you trying to fool now?
Yourself...?"
A whisper. Too close. Too real.
The voice—so familiar, sent a jolt through her. Her eyes snapped open.
Before her—nothing. Only a ruined, moss-covered wall. Unmoving and silent.
But she knew the voice.
She knew...
She knew...
That she wasn't alone now.