The rain was little more than a whisper, a fine, glittering mist catching the sun's stray beams, but it was enough to soak the earth and settle on the dark leaves. I stood in the mud, my riding boots sinking slightly with the shift of my weight. My breath hitched, a faint, nervous thing, as the man I knew as Eiser lifted his face to the light. He was sitting on a moss-covered boulder, his posture too casual for the weight of the moment.
I could feel a familiar heat creeping up my neck. "Ligh, seriously..." I sighed inwardly, adjusting the brim of my riding cap. My fingers flexed around the reins, tightening without realizing it, as though the leather would somehow anchor me to reality.
I took a slow stride, my mind reeling. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, each beat a sharp reminder of the inexplicable pull I felt toward him.
"...I feel so strange whenever I'm around Eiser lately..."
It was true. A simple glance, a casual touch, even the proximity of his presence set off a bizarre, bewildering tremor within me, one I couldn't quite name, let alone control.
"G-go find us some shelter then!" I snapped, the words coming out sharper than I intended, a clumsy shield for my sudden nervousness. I made a move to turn, my boots making a soft, defiant clack against the ground, each sound echoing against the muted hush of the rain-soaked forest.
"Ligh, seriously..." His voice was low, familiar, threaded with something I couldn't place. Frustration? Concern? Or something else entirely? My stomach knotted at the ambiguity.
His gloved hand shot out, not to grab, not to command, but a gentle, firm pressure on my back, settling just above the curve of my waist. The unexpected intimacy stole the air from my lungs, and a loud, undeniable BA-BUMP echoed in my ears, synchronized with the sudden racing of my pulse.
I didn't turn immediately, couldn't. My thoughts scrambled in wild tangles as the subtle, slow movement of his hand adjusted the bridle strap on my hip—a closeness that was both agony and pleasure. He was impossibly near, a presence that seemed to bend the air around me.
Finally, I pivoted back, forcing my gaze to meet his. The air seemed to thicken, each droplet of rain suspended in the space between us. My pulse became a double-time rhythm—BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP—each beat a loud reminder that I could neither escape nor fully surrender. He was a breathtaking silhouette against the glimmering forest, quiet yet impossible to ignore.
We stood for a long moment, simply existing in the narrow, charged space that separated us. His eyes, dark and fathomless, examined me with a precision that made my usual composure crumble. A scowl began to form on my face, a desperate attempt to regain some shred of control over the chaos he had stirred within me.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Water dripped from the leaves above, the sound tiny yet somehow amplified in the thick tension. My mare shifted slightly nearby, a shadow of calm in contrast to the storm inside me.
He remained on the boulder, an image of tranquil patience despite the turmoil he had invoked. Slowly, his expression softened, the sharp intensity giving way to an invitation that made my chest tighten.
"Come sit."
Absolutely! I can expand your passage
I watched as he slowly reached for a piece of white cloth tucked away in his coat pocket. With deliberate care, he spread it over the mossy boulder where he sat, clearing a dry spot. He didn't look up, but the gesture spoke volumes—a quiet, unspoken invitation.
"Come sit," he'd said. His voice carried a calm authority, yet beneath it lingered that familiar warmth that always seemed to disarm me.
With a flustered plop, I lowered myself beside him. The dampness from the moss still seeped through the fabric of my pants, sending a shiver up my spine. Immediately, my mind began cataloguing complaints.
"HE'S CALLING ME A PRINCESS AGAIN… STOP MOCKING ME! I should be grateful that I deigned to sit here at all! Not only have I never sat on the ground outside like this before, I'm wearing white pants right now!"
I huffed, turning my head to stare at him, my cheeks puffed and my expression no doubt ridiculous.
He offered a quick, apologetic glance, a faint, almost teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Ah, right. My apologies, Princess."
My blood pressure spiked in indignation. "What? What is it now?" I demanded, my voice sharper than intended.
He finally shifted, turning his body to face me fully, his gaze softening. "I wasn't mocking you," he said.
I scoffed, arms folding instinctively across my chest. "Oh, come on. He calls me princess whenever I do something he doesn't like—when I'm demanding, or difficult, or just plain stubborn. It's an insult he hides behind a pretty title!"
He held up a hand in a gesture meant to calm me. "Originally, that was my father and grandmother's pet name for me… not exactly an insult, though I suppose it came with its own set of expectations," he mused, his eyes tracing the intricate patterns of sunlight and shadow on the bright green foliage.
I turned away, pressing my lips into a thin line, the frustration twisting in my stomach. "...But because of him, I'm starting to hate hearing it—"
He cut me off gently, his tone steady and serious, a quiet gravity threading each word. "I can't say I meant it in a positive way at first, since I was unfamiliar with your personality..." His gaze sharpened, locking on mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. "But these days, that isn't necessarily what I mean when I call you Princess."
A familiar heat rose to my cheeks, catching me off guard. "Hmm? If he doesn't mean to mock me…" I looked back at him, curiosity mingling with apprehension, my voice tentative.
He looked away briefly, a shadow passing over his features, as though articulating these thoughts was a delicate act. "It's only because you're so new to me." His head shook faintly, and then he continued with quiet, deliberate intensity. "You're so different from me, so unique… it's fascinating."
His words fell over me like a gentle tide, washing away my defensiveness in slow, calming waves.
"No one's going to criticize you for simply being yourself," he added, his voice soft but certain.
The sincerity in his tone made my heart skip and thud—BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP—each beat loud in my ears. All my earlier irritation melted away, replaced by a vulnerability I couldn't quite name.
Finally, managing to find my voice through the fluttering of my chest, I whispered, almost hesitantly, "...Then what does it mean when he calls me Princess now?"
I waited for his answer to my question—"Then what does it mean when he calls me Princess now?"—but the moment seemed to hang suspended, heavy with unspoken tension. The words I had just spoken lingered between us, unanswered, as if the forest itself had paused to listen. Instead of speaking, he simply turned his gaze outward, eyes tracing the glittering green canopy of leaves above.
I followed his line of sight, and for the first time, I truly noticed the world around us. The woods shimmered in tiny droplets, each leaf catching stray sunlight like a suspended jewel. The moss beneath the boulder was vivid, alive, and softened the damp earth with its velvety touch. We sat side by side, the cloth he had placed between us still protecting the pristine white of my riding pants, and despite my earlier protests, I felt a small, unspoken comfort in that thoughtfulness.
"It feels unusual, sitting here like this..." I murmured, almost to myself.
The rain continued its gentle, persistent song—a soft PITTER PITTER on the leaves and the ground. It was hypnotic, each droplet a tiny metronome keeping time with my slowly calming heartbeat.
"...But it isn't unpleasant at all," I admitted, my voice softer now, carrying a tentative awe.
My gaze drifted downward to my hands, loosely clasped in my lap. The stillness felt strange, almost foreign, in contrast to the relentless rhythm of my usual life—so much planning, so much precision, so little room for this kind of simplicity.
"I had a lot to think about, and was constantly dealing with work and people..." I whispered, my words blending with the soft sound of rain.
The tiny, repetitive PITTER PITTER on leaves and earth was deeply soothing. Each drop seemed to wash away a fragment of the tension I hadn't realized I was holding.
"But being in nature is making me feel relaxed for the first time in a long while," I continued, a quiet smile forming despite myself.
I closed my eyes and leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the sun-filtered rain play over my face. My long hair slipped over my shoulders, damp and fragrant, clinging lightly to my skin.
"I feel the gentle breeze on my skin..." I murmured, tilting my face toward it.
"...I hear the lovely sound of raindrops falling on the leaves and the earth..." The PITTER PITTER became a meditative rhythm, each drop a tiny whisper in my sanctuary of green.
Through the gaps in the canopy, sunlight broke through, scattering across the droplets to create small, fleeting rainbows.
"...And because the sky is clear, I see rays of sunlight shining through the rain… which makes it appear as though it isn't rain, but drops of light that are falling… It's so pretty."
A genuine smile touched my lips, unbidden and fragile. "And seeing something so pretty is putting me in a good mood, too. I didn't know the green of summer could be so beautiful…"
I curled slightly into myself, hugging my knees, suddenly feeling an unexpected sense of comfort and safety in this damp, glittering world. The forest seemed to breathe with me, and he was silently beside me, a quiet, steady presence that made the moment feel sacred.
Then, breaking the silence with a soft mumble, I voiced a strange, whimsical thought. "If it's going to rain anyway… I hope we get heavy rainfall tonight. And thunder, too."
I glanced at him, half-expecting some teasing remark, some playful refusal. But he simply sat there, his profile etched starkly against the luminous green, completely still. No comment, no shift in expression—only a patient, unmovable presence that somehow made the world seem slower, softer.
And yet… he still hadn't answered the question.

The low, oppressive sky seemed to press down on the garden, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and damp stone, as if the heavens themselves were mirroring the weight in my chest. A soft, tentative voice—the woman's—cut through the muted rhythm of the rainfall.
"Do you like rainy, stormy days?"
I barely registered the words at first. My gaze was fixed distantly, tracing the silver rivulets sliding down the dark leaves, lost in a memory that still carried the sting of raw grief. The question itself was a hook, sharp and barbed, pulling me back to a truth I had long ago accepted but never fully reconciled with.
Her voice, filled with quiet curiosity, drew me out slightly.
"I thought she hated them," she murmured.
Yes. My mother had hated them. Every rumble of thunder, every splash of relentless rain on the roof, had once unsettled her.
"She can't even sleep properly on such nights," I admitted, my tone flat, acknowledging an unspoken understanding between us.
Then, the raw, unfiltered confession left my lips almost before I realized it: "No, I hate them. They're horrible."
Horrible. That was almost too mild a word. They were more than that—they were a curse. An invitation to relive the only relief I had ever known, and simultaneously the deepest despair. They were the nights when sleep came too close to dreams, and the dreams themselves were cruelly vivid.
"They always give me nightmares…" I whispered, barely audible, letting the words hang in the humid, rain-filled air.
The woman's quiet attentiveness was patient, almost reverent, as if she understood that speaking further might break the fragile walls I had built around my grief. "What do you dream about?"
I lifted my gaze to the wet, shimmering leaves, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of rain: drip, drip, drip. The answer was simple, yet absolute. "My mother."
Her image flashed vividly before me—gentle, radiant, a smile that once promised light even in the darkest storms. The dream was a fleeting oasis of comfort, yet always ended abruptly, sending me plunging back into the hollow ache of reality.
"Sounds like a pleasant dream, getting to see someone you miss dearly," she said, confusion tinting her tone. "Why do you call it a nightmare?"
I turned my eyes away, unable to hold her kind, probing gaze. The answer was merciless, an immovable fact of my waking life.
"Because it isn't real."
The pain wasn't in the dream itself, but in its limitations. Its ephemeral nature made every smile, every touch, every fleeting word impossible to retain.
"I want to touch her, but I can't…" The words were ragged, fragile, a secret I carried even in moments of silence. "And I can't have a proper conversation with her, either. So whenever I wake up, I feel empty… hollow…"
Her kind, smiling face—the ghost of her—flickered behind my closed eyes, a vision of warmth and comfort that deepened the ache.
"…Because it just makes me miss her more."
I knew how pathetic it sounded. A man of wealth, power, and respect, yet utterly crippled by a simple, unreachable desire: to see my mother again. And yet I could not resist. I stared out the window at the pouring rain, at the silver flashes of lightning that cut the darkness like fleeting, impossible hope. The world itself seemed to weep with me.
"It's a nightmare because I feel pain and sadness once I wake up," I confessed, the ache in my chest sharp, almost physical. The rational part of me screamed at the futility. I was an heir to fortunes, feared and respected, yet reduced to trembling over memories and longings that no power could grant.
"But what's truly pathetic," I admitted with bitter honesty, "is that I still look forward to those nights."
Every stormy night, every chance to be near her—real or not—I welcomed it. Even a fleeting moment in a dream was infinitely more precious than the endless, hollow reality that awaited me in waking life.
I confessed to the depth of my despair, the morbid attraction I held for those painful nights. It was pathetic, I admitted, to look forward to the nightmares, but the truth ran deeper, darker. My gaze fell again to the glistening ground, where the last stubborn drops clung to the yellow flowers, weighing them down.
"Because even though it hurts so much, I'm glad for the chance to see her face once again."
It was a form of self-torture, a ritual I inflicted upon myself whenever the sky turned dark—a way to feel anything at all beyond the numb acceptance of her absence.
I remembered storms in their full intensity, lightning cracking against windowpanes like whips, the thunder a drum that vibrated through my bones. Sleepless nights spent staring into the shadows, waiting for the inevitable dream.
Because the harder the rain, the louder the thunder… the clearer the nightmare.
I recalled staring at her reflection beside me—the woman with long hair cascading over her shoulders, watching the storm with a mixture of awe and quiet contemplation—while I lay in my bed, waiting. That clarity, that near-tangible presence of her, was intoxicating, addictive. I chased it relentlessly.
"Because I crave an even greater stimulus and pain…" I forced the confession out, each word heavy, dirty with self-reproach. "…Stormy nights are a form of self-harm to me."
The woman beside me remained silent, her face grave, her eyes reflecting the complex sadness of my words. Her quiet presence was a mirror for the weight I carried, and for once, I did not try to shield myself.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the atmosphere shifted. A subtle change in the air, in the light, as if the world itself had exhaled.
PLOP. PLOP.
The raindrops became sporadic, then ceased altogether. A sudden, dazzling shine erupted as the clouds broke, sunlight piercing through the canopy in a powerful beam, illuminating the leaves, the lingering droplets, the mossy earth.
"Oh!" my companion exclaimed, looking up. Her voice was bright, filled with awe. "Looks like the rain's about to let up."
I glanced up, momentarily surprised. The storm, like my self-pitying confession, had ended abruptly, leaving an unexpected calm in its wake.
"You were right, it ended pretty quickly," I said, my voice tinged with both relief and a faint dissatisfaction. My mind, tuned to the rhythm of the storm and the promise of the nightmare, wasn't sure how to react to this sudden, premature serenity.
"That's too bad. I was just starting to relax and enjoy—" I began, only for her to interrupt mid-sentence.
"HUH?"
Her attention snapped to something else entirely. The contemplative pity on her face melted into genuine wonder, a childlike joy that made the corners of her eyes sparkle.
"OH, IT'S A RAINBOW!" she cried, pointing toward the newly sunlit patch of garden. A tiny, perfect arc of color stretched over the brilliant yellow flowers, delicate yet radiant. The entire scene seemed to sparkle, each raindrop catching the light like a jewel.
"It's so tiny and adorable!" she added, her voice lilting, her expression full of delight.
She turned back to me, eyes bright and shining, seeking to share the beauty she had just discovered.
"LOOK! OVER THERE! CAN YOU SEE IT?"
I followed her gaze. The soft, ethereal band of light hovered above the flowers, a promise of calm after the storm, a quiet punctuation to the emotional storm I had just laid bare.
"Yes… I see it," I admitted, my voice quieter now, almost reverent.
The light fell on my face, warming the skin that had moments ago been cold with sorrow. It was a sharp, brilliant contrast to the storm I had been consumed by—a sudden, unexpected grace that mirrored the fragile, transient beauty of life itself.
And then, in the last image, she seemed poised to remark on my expression—her eyes narrowing playfully, her lips curling in anticipation: "What's with that lukewarm…?"
The light was blinding, washing the world in sudden, glittering gold. Each droplet clinging to leaves and petals seemed to catch the sun and scatter it into a thousand tiny prisms. I confirmed that I saw the rainbow, but the feeling it evoked was not the joy she clearly expected. The abrupt shift—from the agonizing self-pity of my confession to this unexpected, almost saccharine beauty—felt jarring, dissonant, and foreign.
"What's with that lukewarm reaction?" she challenged, the bright pink heart next to her earlier exclamation now replaced by a frown, a tiny, angry icon hovering in her imagined dialogue bubble.
I shrugged, averting my gaze from the soft arc of color to her expressive face. "Were you expecting me to jump for joy? I'm not a child." My voice was deliberately aloof, a shield against any sudden, genuine feeling that might slip past my carefully maintained composure. "A rainbow is just a rainbow."
Her annoyance flared instantly, like a spark in dry grass. "WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? ARE YOU CALLING ME A CHILD?!"
"Most people are usually excited to see a rainbow, regardless of how old they are!" she fired back, voice taut with indignation. The truth was, my mind was still entangled in the emotional aftermath of discussing my mother, unable—or unwilling—to pivot toward a simple, innocent wonder. Explaining that would have felt like exposing a wound that I wasn't ready to revisit.
I looked down at her, sitting beside me now, her small frame radiating a warmth I could neither resist nor fully comprehend. "You're just an unfeeling sort," I remarked, my tone flat but edged with an ironic distance.
That phrase stung—not because it was untrue, but because it neatly summarized the person I had become, the way I had learned to armor myself against both joy and grief. Instead of letting it show, I coun