The moment Nigel sat up, all eyes were on him.

  Dovak spoke again to break up the tension. "Thought we’d have to start charging rent for that bed."

  His usual sarcasm lacked bite.

  Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You looked like you were fighting demons in there. And losing.”

  William, more serious, studied him carefully. "Do you remember anything?"

  Nyx didn’t speak. But her gaze—sharp, unreadable—was the heaviest of them all.

  Nigel exhaled, rubbing his face. His body still felt cold, despite the sweat sticking to his clothes.

  “I’m fine.”

  The words felt wrong even as he said them.

  "Yeah, sure, totally believable,” Sam muttered.

  Dovak tossed a towel onto his lap. “Wipe yourself off, at least. You look like you got dragged out of a lake.”

  He did. He felt like it, too.

  They were all waiting for him to say something more. Something to reassure them, something that would make them stop looking at him like that, like he was about to break.

  The pressure clawed at his ribs.

  He needed to breathe. Needed space.

  The walls of the inn felt too tight, too small, so he stood up abruptly.

  “I need some air.”

  Nyx straightened. “You shouldn’t—”

  “I’ll be fine.” The words came out sharper than he intended.

  A beat of silence.

  Then, without waiting for another argument, he walked out.

  The moment he stepped outside, the night air hit him like cold water. The sky above Hizuru was a deep indigo, lanterns casting soft pools of gold along the narrow streets. The city was still awake—quiet, but alive.

  Distant voices floated from market stalls, laughter weaving through the streets in soft echoes.

  Nigel hadn’t realized how much time had passed. It felt like he had been asleep for minutes. Or maybe years.

  He let out a breath, watching it curl in the cool air. Then, without a real destination, he started walking. Anywhere, as long as it was away.

  The streets of Hizuru were quieter at night.

  The distant murmur of the markets had faded, leaving only the soft rustle of the wind and the glow of lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.

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  Nigel had wandered without thinking, letting his feet take him anywhere but back to the inn.

  And then—a small tug at his sleeve. He turned.

  A young girl, no older than seven or eight, stood before him. Her dark hair was tied messily, and she wore a simple yet well-kept kimono. She looked up at him with big, eager eyes and spoke.

  Nigel blinked. “…I don’t understand.”

  The girl puffed her cheeks in frustration, then gestured wildly toward the basket at her feet—half-filled with groceries, too heavy for her small arms.

  Then, she grabbed his wrist and pulled.

  He could’ve ignored her, but he didn’t.

  With a low sigh, he picked up the basket. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  The girl beamed and led the way, her small steps quick and determined.

  The house wasn’t far—small, modest, but well-kept. A single paper lantern hung by the entrance, its warm glow casting soft light over the wooden frame.

  As soon as they reached the door, an elderly woman stepped outside.

  She was tiny, wrapped in a simple dark kimono, her silver hair tied back.

  At the sight of them, her lined face broke into a smile.

  She spoke, her tone gentle, grateful.

  Nigel hesitated. He didn’t understand the words—but her warmth was undeniable.

  Then, he remembered something.

  Jin.

  The way he had greeted him—calm, respectful.

  So, without fully knowing why, Nigel mimicked the motion—a small, polite bow.

  The grandmother’s smile widened, and she gestured him to step inside.

  He hesitated for a moment, but the little girl looked at him with pitiful, begging eyes. But just as he was about to step inside—

  “Oi!”

  The grandmother scolded him.

  Nigel froze. The old woman pointed down to his boots.

  “…Ah.”

  It took him a second, but he got the message. With mild embarrassment, he stepped back, bent down, and untied his laces.

  Once he had removed his boots, the grandmother nodded approvingly and stepped aside, letting him in.

  The house was small but warm. A simple wooden floor, a few neatly arranged cushions, and the faint crackle of an old stove where the grandmother had already begun preparing something.

  The girl chattered excitedly as she rummaged through a small box, pulling out wooden dolls, trinkets, and old paper charms. She held them up to Nigel, clearly trying to explain something. He didn’t understand a word but listened anyway.

  The girl talked without hesitation, her little hands moving animatedly as she lined up her dolls in front of him. Nigel watched, arms resting on his knees. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him like this.

  Without expectations, without fear or disdain. Without anything other than pure, childlike enthusiasm. And for once, he didn’t mind it.

  The scent of boiling broth filled the air. A deep, rich aroma—savory and comforting.

  The grandmother moved with quiet efficiency, ladling the steaming dish into a ceramic bowl.

  She placed it in front of him, speaking a single word.

  “Ramen.”

  That word—he understood.

  Nigel looked down at the bowl.

  The broth shimmered under the light, thick noodles resting beneath slices of meat, chopped scallions, and a perfectly soft-boiled egg. The steam rose in delicate tendrils, carrying with it a warmth that seeped into his chest before he even took the first bite.

  His stomach tightened. For a moment, he just stared.

  Then, hesitantly, he picked up the wooden chopsticks, mirroring how the grandmother and the little girl held theirs. He lifted a bite to his mouth—

  And tasted warmth.

  Not just the heat of the broth.

  Something deeper.

  A memory surfaced.

  A wooden table, dim candlelight, quiet laughter.

  His mother. Nazli. Martin. Himself.

  Late at night, after a long day, they had shared a meal—not unlike this one.

  His mother had been recounting a story, something ridiculous and over-exaggerated, and Martin had been laughing so hard he had nearly spit out his drink.

  Nigel had laughed too.

  It had been genuine. It had been warm. It had been before everything fell apart.

  The chopsticks in his hand trembled slightly.

  And before he realized it—tears slipped down his face.

  A single drop.

  Then another.

  His breath hitched.

  The little girl, wide-eyed, looked up at him in alarm. The grandmother paused, her face gentle but concerned.

  Nigel clenched his jaw, quickly rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “I’m fine.”

  The girl didn’t look convinced.

  She reached forward and placed something in his lap. One of her small wooden dolls.

  Her silent way of saying, "Don't be sad."

  Nigel swallowed, exhaling slowly. He glanced down at the doll, then at the little girl.

  And, for the first time in longer than he could remember—

  He smiled.