After that, I kept reopening that yellowed handwritten book.

  It was a story Nox had copied out by hand—the edges of the paper already curling, the ink still bearing his usual steadiness and clarity. I could almost see his expression in every stroke—casual, calm, gentle, with a faint trace of weariness. Those words seemed like things he couldn’t say aloud, tucked away page by page into the book.

  “Did you see how he dealt with that rift?”

  That question echoed in my mind for a long time.

  I knew deeply that I would always love Nox and Luma. That had never changed. In my ideal world, I wanted to stay by their sides forever—eating together, reading together, walking through every crack in time together. But reality—“forever” is a concept that can never be defined. What is love? Walking side by side? Staying unconditionally? Refusing to age, or choosing to decay? I didn’t know.

  But what I did know—was that the way I choose to love has never changed.

  I lifted my increasingly stiff hand. My knuckles were pale, but my grip was steady. My gaze gradually grew firm.

  From that day on, this home—this home of “strange people”—finally became truly “strange.”

  I began to frequently request all kinds of interactions. I asked Nox to brush my hair. His movements were as gentle as always, occasionally clumsy, as if handling something precious. I bathed with Luma. Though her expression remained calm, the tips of her ears turned a shy shade of red I had never seen before. Then I trained in hand-to-hand combat with Nox. He never held back, and I never backed down.

  I pleaded with Luma to show her combat form. She raised her hand, and countless weapons of various shapes emerged from her body and the air around her, filling the sky, as though they could devour the entire heavens. That was only ten percent of her arsenal, she said lightly. But inside, I was in awe. In that moment, I saw Luma’s true form—she didn’t belong to this world, and yet she had donned a human shell for me.

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  I also often helped them sort books in the basement, translating the language they had created. I used words and intention to converse with them. Once, I pointed to a twisted character and asked, “How do you pronounce this one?” Nox came over and whispered the word in my ear. In that moment, I felt like I heard the wind from another world in his memory.

  I asked to sleep with them. Neither of them refused.

  Nox had changed. He no longer avoided certain emotions so subtly. When he looked at me, his face would sometimes flicker with carefully hidden sorrow, but I always saw it. He didn’t say it, and I didn’t point it out.

  Luma began to approach me more often, too. Once always silent, now she would speak while helping me dry my hair after a bath, telling stories of her past. She’d hug me to sleep, gently stroking my head, and sometimes whisper softly in my ear: “Stay a little longer?” She never said the word “immortality,” but I knew what she meant. I refused—gently, just like she would’ve.

  That night, the three of us lay in bed. I was in the middle. Luma lightly wrapped her arms around me, her breathing steady, like she was whispering my name in a dream. I knew she was sleeping soundly. I didn’t want to wake her.

  But the pain in my body pulled me from sleep. I frowned slightly and quietly shifted to adjust my posture. As I turned my head, I saw Nox lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

  “Vera? What’s wrong? Is your back hurting again?” His voice was soft, low like the wind.

  “Mm.” I responded quietly.

  He got up and fetched that familiar jar of ointment from the cabinet. As the cold scent wafted over, he was already kneeling by my side, gently applying it to my lower back with his fingers. The ointment seeped into my skin, spreading warmth.

  He lay back down beside me.

  I rolled over and whispered, “Nox, what were you thinking about?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Nothing. I’m about to sleep too.”

  “Mm.”

  After a while, he suddenly spoke. “Vera…”

  “What is it?” I turned and looked at him.

  He didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at me, as if confirming something—or struggling with it. Then he gently shook his head and smiled.

  “…No, nothing. Good night, Vera.”

  I didn’t ask again. I just reached out and held his fingertips.

  “Mm. Good night, Nox.”