Rain had threatened earlier, but only a soft drizzle remained—light enough to kiss the windows, loud enough to echo the weight of everything Atlas didn't say.
Inside, warmth lingered like a dying ember. A single oil lantern cast flickering gold against the interior wood, illuminating Sansa's sleeping form with ghostlike gentleness. Her breaths were steady, though faint, rising and falling beneath a heavy woolen blanket. Her blonde hair, now unkempt, framed her face like overgrown vines reclaiming a forgotten ruin.
Atlas sat beside her, motionless, save for the subtle tension in his shoulders. Her hand remained wrapped around his fingers—light, delicate, and trembling even in sleep. The bandages on her wrists were fresh, soft white stained with the faintest touch of healing salve. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his thumb, a quiet echo of survival.
