The cliff was quiet tonight.
Not the stillness of peace, but the kind that comes before something is let go.
Aria stood at the edge, the wind catching at her coat, cool against her skin. The overlook stretched wide before her, the river far below reflecting slivers of moonlight. Pine needles were scattered across the rocks. The sky above was painted in bruised colours, deep purple bleeding into steel grey. The air carried the faint scent of ash from an old fire pit and the wild herbs growing in the cracks of the cliff.
In her hands: a bundle tied in a faded blue ribbon.
Letters. Dozens of them.
She hadn’t opened the bundle in years, but she remembered every word. Every night spent hunched over parchment, whispering confessions to the moon. Letters written from a place of hope, of achi
