Willowmere glowed under the light of lanterns.
Once a year, the villagers came together to celebrate the Firelight Festival—a harvest tradition marked by bonfires, music, and warmth. It wasn't extravagant. There were no glittering gowns or city parades. But there was bread, and laughter, and stories told under stars that felt close enough to touch.
The village square had been strung with garlands of dried flowers and old ribbons. Children wore crowns made of wheat and marigold. Someone strummed a guitar by the well, and Mira had made enough plum pie to feed every wandering soul who passed through.
Ian stood at the edge of it all, bathed in the soft amber glow of flickering lanterns. Aria pulled at his sleeve, grinning, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "You have to come see the fire show!"
Theo ran ahead with a stick in hand, pretending to be a swordfighter, shouting something about fire dragons.
Ian laughed—deep, real, and free.
He followed them to the center of the square, where villagers had begun lighting the fire pit. The flames climbed high, painting everyone in gold and orange. The music swelled. Someone passed Ian a warm mug of cider. Another slipped a hand-made ribbon around his wrist, "For luck," they said.
Behind him, Elina and Alisha danced in the firelight, their hair undone, their faces soft with joy. James stood with Noah, smiling faintly as they watched Mira chase a group of kids away from the pie cart.
For a little while, nothing hurt.
There was only the flicker of fire, the smell of roasted apples, and the sound of children laughing in the dark.
If this is one of my last nights, Ian thought, I'm glad it's this one.
The next morning, the warmth was gone.
Fog drifted low again, softening the world into gray silence. In the Calix living room, James, Elina, Mira, and Noah sat together, their expressions serious.
"Ian's getting weaker," Elina said softly. "Last night was beautiful. But he coughed more. He hid it."
"He's always hiding it," Mira whispered.
James sighed, fingers steepled. "There's a clinic. A specialist in the next city. It's not a cure—but it might help."
Noah nodded. "It could buy him time. Better time."
"We have to try," Elina said. "We can't just sit here and let him slip away."
James looked at her for a long moment, then turned to Noah and Mira. "We'll ask him together. Gently."
An hour later, Ian was called into the room.
He knew something was coming the moment he stepped inside. The stillness. The shared glances. Elina reached out for his hand.
"Ian," she began carefully, "we've found a doctor. A clinic. There's a chance it might—"
"No," Ian said, before she could finish.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't shake. He just looked tired. Worn.
"I know what this is. I've read the reports. There's no magic left in medicine. It would only drag things out. Keep me hooked up to wires, pumping chemicals into something that doesn't need fixing—just peace."
Elina's voice broke. "But we could have more time—"
James gently touched her hand. "Let him choose."
She stopped. Looked at her son. And nodded, though her lips trembled.
Ian offered a soft, grateful smile, then turned and left the room.
Outside, the sun was barely climbing through the mist. Birds chattered softly from the trees.
Leon sat beneath one of them, a wide old maple, his jacket pulled around him, staring at nothing.
Ian approached slowly. "You hiding or brooding?"
Leon glanced up, then smirked. "Bit of both."
Ian lowered himself to the ground beside him, his joints aching more than usual. They sat in silence for a minute.
"Remember," Leon said, "when we were kids, and you used to try and sneak into my room just to ask me random questions?"
"You always kicked me out."
"Yeah." Leon chuckled. "You'd stand there holding your notebook like it was a peace offering. I never even asked what you were writing."
"It was mostly about how to impress you," Ian said with a small smile. "Which was stupid."
Leon turned to look at him. "No, it wasn't. I just didn't deserve it."
The air between them shifted.
"I used to think I had to be the golden son," Leon said quietly. "The one who didn't make mistakes. And I guess… I made the biggest one. I forgot you were watching. I forgot that being a brother wasn't about being perfect. It was about being present. And I wasn't."
He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap.
"I'm sorry, Ian. For all the times I ignored you. For the hallway moments. For the birthdays. For never asking how you were really doing."
Ian studied him for a moment.
Then he leaned back, pulled a fallen leaf from Leon's hair, and said, "I forgive you."
Leon blinked. "Just like that?"
"I'm too tired to hold grudges," Ian said, smiling gently. "And I don't want to die with walls still between us."
Leon let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in his chest for years. He pulled Ian into a one-armed hug, tucking him under his shoulder.
"God, you're such a sap," he muttered, brushing Ian's hair back with his knuckles.
"Shut up," Ian laughed, leaning into him.
They stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, the quiet surrounding them like a blanket.
From the window above, Alisha watched them—two brothers, laughing under a tree like they had finally remembered who they were to each other. Her smile wasn't just relief—it was regret, softening into something almost like hope.
And that was enough.