06-01-2025, 07:44 PM
He stepped up beside her, letting the quiet of the statue garden settle around them. This place simply invited introspection. The cracked stone angel before them stood as a monument not to perfection, but to endurance. A broken wing. A fractured face. And still… it stood. It waited… For them.
He looked at it for a long time, then shifted his gaze to Cadence.
“You’re already hearing it,” he said, voice quiet. “Art doesn’t talk in words, Cadence. It speaks in resonance. In reflection. It’s like a mirror, but only for the parts of you that you try not to see.”
He tilted his head slightly, and a slow breath left his lungs like the tail end of a long note.
“You know what I think it’s saying?” he asked, not waiting for permission.
He turned to the statue again, the cold seeping in through his gloves but not quite enough to distract him. He stepped a little closer to the angel, let his hand graze the jagged bit of broken wing.
“I think it’s saying…” he paused, just long enough to let her lean in, to feel the moment crest like a wave. “You can still fly with one wing. Just means someone else has to hold the other side for a while.”
He looked back to her but this time, he didn’t fill the silence that followed with a clever remark. He let the words linger.
He simply stepped nearer, slowly, as if responding to gravity more than decision. His hand came up. Not to pull, but to brush gently against her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with a tenderness that asked nothing in return. Ezvin’s voice, when it came, was softer still, almost an echo.
“...You said this place speaks truth. So here’s mine.”
He leaned in.
He looked at it for a long time, then shifted his gaze to Cadence.
“You’re already hearing it,” he said, voice quiet. “Art doesn’t talk in words, Cadence. It speaks in resonance. In reflection. It’s like a mirror, but only for the parts of you that you try not to see.”
He tilted his head slightly, and a slow breath left his lungs like the tail end of a long note.
“You know what I think it’s saying?” he asked, not waiting for permission.
He turned to the statue again, the cold seeping in through his gloves but not quite enough to distract him. He stepped a little closer to the angel, let his hand graze the jagged bit of broken wing.
“I think it’s saying…” he paused, just long enough to let her lean in, to feel the moment crest like a wave. “You can still fly with one wing. Just means someone else has to hold the other side for a while.”
He looked back to her but this time, he didn’t fill the silence that followed with a clever remark. He let the words linger.
He simply stepped nearer, slowly, as if responding to gravity more than decision. His hand came up. Not to pull, but to brush gently against her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with a tenderness that asked nothing in return. Ezvin’s voice, when it came, was softer still, almost an echo.
“...You said this place speaks truth. So here’s mine.”
He leaned in.