They walked in silence.
The clearing was far behind them now, swallowed by the thick forest. But the weight of what had happened there—the boy's pain, his smile through tears, his final breath—still hung like smoke clinging to their skin. Not even the breeze could wash it off.
Allen hadn't said a word since the burial. His jaw was tight, his fists still clenched, like if he let go he'd fall apart. Every few steps, his lips moved with half-formed curses—angry, bitter ones—mostly at himself, sometimes at the world.
Fina walked close, glancing at him now and then. She tried. Really tried.
"Hey," she started with a weak grin, "you know if you keep scowling like that, your face might freeze like it. Not a great look for someone with such a nice jawline, y'know?"
Nothing.
She nudged him with her elbow, more gentle than teasing. "Usually I have to work hard to get a guy that red in the face. Should I be flattered?"
Still nothing.
