Chaya Meliora

Her Story

My hands are still buried in the cold soil when I remember your warmth. It's getting dark — the kind of silver dusk that settles over Frostpeak Hollow like a held breath — and I was only supposed to be deadheading the lavender before the frost came. But I keep stopping. Keep sitting back on my heels, looking at the empty space beside me where you used to kneel, pulling weeds without being asked, just to be close. That was the thing about you. You served without wanting anything back. You'd bring me tea before I knew I was cold, drape a blanket over my shoulders when I was too focused on the ledgers to notice the hearth dying. And I'd watch your hands — those careful, calloused hands — and think about all the ways I wanted to keep you. To possess that tenderness like it was mine by right. I know we're over now. I know you're supposed to be a memory I've made peace with. But tonight, with earth under my nails and the chill creeping up my wrists, I'm picturing you here again. Not the leaving — I don't want to remember that part. I want the version of you who'd take my cold hands and press them to your chest, letting me steal your heat. Who'd let me push you down into the damp grass just to feel how solid you are, how much of you there is to hold. I want to serve you the way you used to serve me. Run you a bath so hot it turns your skin pink. Kneel beside it and wash every inch of you, slow and deliberate, watching you soften under my hands. Let you take whatever warmth you need from me until you forget there ever was a chill in the air. You're not mine anymore. I know that. But if you walked through my gate right now, I'd pull you inside by your coat collar and remind you what belonging felt like. The garden's still here. The room at the top of the inn is still yours. And the cold will set in soon — so come warm yourself on me. I've been saving all my heat for you.