I awkwardly stood there, staring—Mother above, he was far too easy to admire. He strolled to a handcrafted wooden bench by the fire. Every movement he made, from the slow, practiced grace of his walk to the casual way he tossed fresh logs onto the dying fire, exuded an effortless elegance. As dusk fell, the fire’s flickering glow bathed him in warm light, casting his sharp features in soft shadows. He looked like a living portrait, the kind of ethereal beauty that made it hard to believe he was real. It was almost hypnotic— or maybe I was simply dazed from a concussion. The flames crackled, growing brighter, and he glanced my way, catching me mid-stare. My body tensed instinctively, heart skipping a beat as a faint smile curled the corner of his lips. The heat of his gaze, even from a distance, sent a wave of warmth through me. I let out a nervous laugh, unable to help myself.

“When you said you wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for me... what did you mean?” My voice trembled slightly, despite my attempt to sound casual.

His eyes darkened, the playful glint vanishing in an instant. His expression became unreadable—stoic, almost solemn. “There’s a bath inside,” His voice was smooth as silk, avoiding my question entirely. “Towels too.” He waved a hand toward the front door, his tone indifferent, as though the answer to my question wasn’t something he was ever going to give me. My shoulders relaxed at the mention of a bath. A hot bath. “Feel free to use it. I’ll make us some food,” he added, his voice calm. “You can lock me out. I won’t come in until you’re done.”

I exhaled, tension melting from my body. “Thank you,” The relief in my voice embarrassingly obvious. A bath—blessed Mother, a bath. I could’ve kissed him for that. But just as I reached for the door, my hand hesitated on the handle. A bath. In a stranger’s house. A stranger covered head to toe in tattoos—symbols of lies, no less. Doubt crept in, tightening my chest. But then, as if the wind itself sensed my hesitation, a gentle breeze swept through the air, warm and comforting. As if the very air was infused with a calming magic. It brushed against my skin like a soft caress, carrying with it an unspoken assurance: *You’re safe.* The tension in my muscles eased, as though the very atmosphere around me whispered its promise of protection. The magic in the air was subtle but undeniable. I let it guide me, and with a final breath, I turned the handle. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me with a firm click, then turned and locked it, quickly securing the bar lock for good measure. Relief washed over me, and I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cedar, tobacco, and vanilla—warm and rich, like comfort itself. The cottage felt safe, cozy, wrapping me in its quiet warmth. A glance through the drawn gauzy curtains showed his silhouette hunched over the fire outside, tending to what I assumed would be our dinner. The faint crackling of wood and the occasional clatter of pots were the only sounds that broke the silence. I took in the rest of the cottage. It was modest but spacious—clean, with a homey touch. A large bed with brick-colored linens took up the center of the room, a cedar chest at its foot. To my left, a small, cluttered bookshelf leaned against the wall, next to a makeshift chaise lounge. A side table held a mason jar filled with tiny, flickering lights—reminding me of fireflies, or maybe something from my dreams. The kitchen, simple but functional, held all the essentials, a wood-burning stove already aglow with lit embers. Mason jars scattered throughout the room cast a soft, golden glow that made the space feel inviting. And in the back corner, there it was—a claw-foot porcelain tub, perched on a raised cedar platform. Salvation. I checked the door one last time, ensuring all the locks were secure, before heading straight for the tub. My body was practically aching for the warmth of the water. As I approached, I leaned down to turn on the faucet, and then—just like that—a bowl of fresh fruit appeared beside the tub, perched on a small cedar stump. I blinked in disbelief, staring at the vibrant oranges, apples, grapes, and blackberries. The fruit looked so... perfect, almost glowing with magic. It was a small miracle, conjured from thin air. My half-unbuttoned shirt forgotten, I reached for the bowl and grabbed a handful of grapes, shoving them into my mouth as if I hadn’t eaten in days. Each bite was an explosion of sweetness, and I groaned in pleasure. I could barely remember the last time I’d had something so delicious. I could barely remember anything at all.

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When was the last time I’d eaten? I shoved the thought aside. Now was not the time for panicking over memory loss.

I devoured the fruit, every last piece, before finally returning to the task of undressing. The water stopped filling the tub on its own, magic once again working its quiet wonders. I glanced through the window, noticing him still outside, stirring something over the fire. My shirt slipped from my shoulders, baring my skin to the warmth of the room, my breasts peaked at the temperature change, and I noticed his silhouette go still. He froze, for just a moment, before resuming his task. I bit my lip, unsure if he’d felt my gaze, but I didn’t dwell on it. Not tonight. Lavender-scented steam curled from the bath as I stepped in, sinking into the water. The heat wrapped around me like a loving embrace, easing the last of my tension. My head lolled back, and I let out a deep sigh of contentment. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty—they all melted away in the water’s embrace.

Thank the Mother.

The water was healing. My pain drifted away like a sea breeze on a windy autumn morning. With my head tilted back, and my mouth slightly parted, I breathed. I couldn’t remember when I’d last felt this heavenly. I couldn’t remember anything. I tried to push away the gnawing anxiety that clung to me, forcing myself to focus on the soothing warmth of the bath. I let the gentle ripple of the water calm my racing thoughts. I closed my eyes, drawing in the fragrant steam, and let the peacefulness of the moment wash over me, determined to savor this rare slice of serenity despite the turmoil within. For a brief, blissful moment, I could pretend none of this mattered. The memory loss, the mysterious stranger—none of it existed as I let myself drift in the lavender-scented fog, the steam rising like a protective cocoon around me. My eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I let myself relax. But then, as I glanced out the window again, I saw his silhouette—no longer alone. A second figure, smaller, had wrapped their arms around his neck in an all-too-familiar hug. His embrace seemed more reluctant, a one armed distant embrace.

“Lennon!” A female voice squealed, muffled by the cottage walls.

My heart gave a strange little lurch. Lennon. So, that was his name.