That night, I woke up to the soft shuffle of your steps. I found you in the studio, curled beneath the large window, sketchpad on your lap, lost in creation. The moonlight framed your face, making you look more like a memory than something real. You didn't notice me at first, and I didn't call out. I just stood there, watching the way your pencil moved with certainty, with purpose as if the world inside your mind was bleeding beautifully onto paper.
When you finally looked up and saw me, you didn't say a word. You just smiled that quiet smile the one that said, you found me again.
I crossed the room and sat beside you. You handed me the sketchpad, and there we were, drawn together, holding each other beneath a tree in the garden we left behind. You had sketched not just our faces but our peace.
"It's not just a drawing," you said. "It's a promise. Wherever we go, we'll grow new roots. We'll build our peace again."
And in that moment, I believed it. Not because of the words, but because of you. Because of us.