Ed reached the platform at the base of the rope bridge and paused.
His hand hovered over the rough hemp railing.
The bridge swayed gently even without wind, creaking like an old memory.
High above, the treehouse waited—warm lamplight leaking through the shutter slats, painting thin golden bars across the bark.
The scent of cedar and something faintly floral drifted down: chamomile, perhaps, or the dried lavender Tia used to tuck into her travel pack.
He swallowed once. His throat felt raw from the long run.
What exactly do you say after ten years?
After being the one who disappeared without a word?
After they all believed you were dead, or worse—gone because you weren't worth keeping?
He lifted his right hand again.
Knuckles hovering near the wooden doorframe at the far end of the bridge.
The compass warmth in his palm had faded to a soft glow, no longer urgent, only certain.
He knocked—three soft, deliberate raps.
Silence.
He waited. Counted to ten in his head.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time.
The sound echoed into the canopy.
"Is anyone there?"
His voice cracked on the last word—hoarse from disuse and cold night air.
Still nothing.
Panic flickered low in his stomach.
The compass had pointed here. It couldn't lie.
But what if she was asleep? Hurt? Gone again?
He pressed his palm flat against the door.
The wood was warm—living warm, not just from the lamp inside.
He leaned closer, ear almost touching the grain, listening.
A faint rustle.
Bare feet on floorboards.
A soft, sleepy murmur.
"Who… who is it?"
That voice.
Even after a century of other worlds, other languages, other goodbyes, it sliced straight through him.
Golden hair shining like sunlight on water.
Emerald eyes that always saw too much.
The same lilting cadence that used to tease him mercilessly about his terrible cooking.
Ed's knees nearly gave out.
He straightened, throat tight.
"It's… it's me."
A long pause.
Then the door cracked open—just a sliver.
Tia stood there in a loose linen nightgown, hair mussed from sleep, one hand clutching the frame as though to keep herself upright.
Her eyes were wide, pupils blown dark in the lamplight.
For a heartbeat she didn't move, didn't breathe.
Then recognition crashed over her face like a wave.
"Ed?"
Her voice broke on his name.
He tried to smile.
It came out crooked, trembling.
"Long time no see."
Tia made a small, wounded sound—half sob, half laugh—and launched herself forward.
She collided with him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
Arms wrapped around his neck, face buried against his shoulder.
He staggered back one step before catching her, hands settling instinctively at her waist.
"Ed—Ed—Ed—"
She kept saying his name like a prayer, like she was afraid the word would vanish if she stopped.
Her shoulders shook.
Warm tears soaked through his tunic.
He stood frozen for a second—then his arms closed around her, tight, desperate, as though she might disappear again if he let go.
"Hey," he whispered against her hair.
"Hey, I'm here. I'm really here."
She pulled back just enough to look at him—hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as though checking he was solid.
"You're alive," she breathed.
"I thought—I thought you were gone. We looked. We looked everywhere after you left the party. No one knew where you went. I thought—"
Her voice cracked. Fresh tears spilled over.
Ed's own eyes burned.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disappear like that. It's… complicated. But I'm here now."
Tia searched his face for a long moment—searching for lies, for tricks, for anything that would make this another cruel dream.
Then she laughed—shaky, wet, impossibly bright.
"You idiot," she said, voice thick.
"You absolute idiot. Coming back after all this time looking like you ran across half the continent without stopping."
She stepped back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, and really looked at him then.
His cloak was torn in three places.
His boots were caked with mud and ash.
Sweat and dirt streaked his face.
His hair was a wind-tangled mess.
Tia's lips twitched.
"You're a disaster," she said fondly.
Ed huffed a laugh.
"Yeah. Well. I was in a hurry."
He reached into the wanderer's treasury—small void rippling open at his hip—and pulled out the orange fruit he'd grabbed earlier.
A whole handful, bright and perfect.
"Here," he said, suddenly awkward.
"I, uh… brought these. For you."
Tia stared at the fruit in his palm. Her eyes widened.
"Orange fruits?" she whispered.
"How did you even—?"
She took one carefully, as though it might vanish.
Rolled it between her fingers.
The peel's citrus scent bloomed between them.
Ed rubbed the back of his neck.
"I remembered you liked sweet things. Figured… I don't know. A peace offering? Or a welcome-back gift? Or… something."
Tia looked up at him, eyes shining again—but softer this time.
"Come inside," she said quietly.
"Before you collapse on my bridge."
She took his hand—small, warm, callused from years of spellwork—and tugged him across the threshold.
The treehouse smelled exactly the way he remembered her: herbs drying on strings, old books, woodsmoke, and that faint lavender she always carried.
A single lantern burned low on the table.
The space was small—cozy—four chairs around a table set for ghosts, three neatly made beds visible through an open curtain.
Ed's chest ached at the sight.
Tia closed the door behind them.
The latch clicked softly.
She turned to face him again.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then she stepped forward—slowly this time—and rested her forehead against his chest.
"Don't disappear again," she whispered.
"Please."
Ed wrapped his arms around her once more.
"I won't," he said, and meant it more than he'd meant anything in a hundred years.