The park smells like hot pavement, sugar, and the vague scent of old flowers—like something wilted but trying. Aster picks the place on purpose. Somewhere open. Familiar. Safe-adjacent, at least. Somewhere that doesn’t scream “this is therapy” or “let’s talk about our feelings,” but still gives the chance for something human to happen.

  Four weeks. That’s how long it takes her to come out of hiding.

  Almost a month of slammed doors, heavy silences, and Aster quietly setting plates of food outside his bedroom like offerings to a very angry god. Anathi never says thank you, never acknowledges him—but the plates come back empty. Eventually.

  Then one morning, she’s there in the kitchen.

  No words. Just in his seat. Hoodie on. Staring at him like he’s dared her to say no to breakfast.

  He makes the pancakes. She eats them. And he doesn’t press.

  Later, he asks if she wants to go out. She doesn’t answer. So he gets her shoes, holds the door, and walks slow enough for her to follow without feeling led.

  Now they’re here. In the park. On a bench.

  Anathi sits curled up like she’s trying to disappear inside her sleeves. Her hood is up despite the sun, shadowing her face like a half-drawn curtain. Aster passes her the paper bag without looking directly at her.

  “It’s not a bribe,” he says. “It’s an apology. For subjecting you to my cooking.”

  She peeks inside. Stiff posture. Darting eyes. Still not fully sure he isn’t a threat. But when she sees the churro, her whole face stutters—like she doesn’t know what expression she’s supposed to make.

  “My mom used to get me these,” she murmurs.

  Aster pretends not to catch the tremor in her voice. “Then she has excellent taste. My churro guy used to give me extras when he thought I looked too pathetic to survive the week.”

  She gives a sound that might be a scoff. Or a laugh. Hard to tell.

  He lets the silence settle again. Anathi doesn’t eat right away—she just holds the bag like it might vanish. Her eyes keep flicking to the kids playing on the swings. The scream-laughing kind of joy that comes from kids who haven’t yet learned the world has teeth.

  Eventually, she takes a bite.

  Small. Careful. Like it might bite back.

  They sit in stillness. Aster watches the light filter through the trees, casting little flickers of gold across the pavement. It feels surreal, watching her like this—small and tense and so deeply, terribly young. He’s seen that same expression in shelter kids before. The ones who never quite get out of fight-or-flight mode.

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  “You know,” he says slowly, “that tree over there? The big one by the fence? I used to live in it.”

  She glances at him. Just a flicker. No disbelief, no curiosity—just wariness, like she’s waiting for the punchline.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “Not metaphorically. Like, sleep-there-and-hope-the-cops-don’t-notice live. It shields me from the rain, mostly. Squirrels are assholes, though.”

  No comment. But she’s listening.

  He points to the highest limb. “I used to climb all the way up there. Pretend I was... I don’t know. Someone who mattered. A mage. A monster hunter. A prince with a sword made of lightning.”

  Silence. Then, quietly: “Does it help?”

  He blinks.

  She’s staring at her shoes, like the question isn’t really for him. Like she’s asking herself.

  Aster nods. “For a little while, yeah.”

  They sit longer. The churro is half-eaten in her lap now. Her fingers fidget with the wrapper, twisting it over and over. A child’s nervous tic, painfully familiar.

  Anathi finally whispers, “Did you ever fall?”

  “Oh yeah. Into a bush full of thorns. I look like I lose a fight with a porcupine. Worth it, though.”

  Another smile. This one stays longer.

  “Want to try?” he asks, jerking his head toward the tree. “I promise not to mock you until after you fall.”

  Anathi stiffens. “Why?”

  “Because it’s still there. And you’re here. And sometimes going up gives you a better view than staying stuck.”

  She doesn’t answer. He waits. Watches her chew her lip raw for a few long seconds.

  Then: “Will you catch me if I fall?”

  A beat passes before he answers.

  “I swear on the last churro.”

  That gets him a real snort. Anathi stands, slowly. Unfolding herself like a fragile machine that hasn’t been used in years.

  They walk to the tree. Aster shows her the knots in the bark, the trick branch that looks strong but isn’t, the safe place to rest her foot. She climbs like someone unused to being supported—but determined. Every step is hesitant, tested, and then taken.

  When she reaches halfway, she looks down at him.

  “I’m up,” she whispers. Her voice sounds amazed.

  “You’re alive,” Aster calls up. “More impressive, honestly.”

  She looks out over the park. He can see it then—the way her shoulders loosen. The way she sits straighter. Like the world shifts under her, just slightly.

  Then, softer than breath: “It’s beautiful.”

  Aster climbs up to sit beside her. Not too close. Not too fast.

  They don’t talk. They don’t need to. The wind rustles through the leaves, and the sun spills fire across the skyline.

  Finally, her voice cuts through it.

  “Aster... do you think I’ll ever be normal again?”

  He doesn’t look at her. Just stares straight ahead.

  “I don’t think ‘normal’ exists,” he says. “I think there’s only surviving and learning how to live again. And you’re already doing both.”

  She doesn’t answer. But after a while, her head leans against his shoulder.

  He doesn’t breathe for a second.

  Then he shifts, just enough to wrap an arm around her. Just enough to say: I’m here.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” she mumbles.

  “Me neither,” he says. “But I’m learning.”

  When they finally come down, the sun is bleeding into twilight. Orange. Purple. Deepening gold. Anathi reaches for his hand without looking, and he takes it without hesitation.

  “Can we come back?” she asks. Her voice is almost shy.

  “Every day,” Aster says, “until the squirrels evict us.”

  She smiles. He smiles.

  And somewhere, for the first time in a very long while, a fracture in their stories begins to heal.