The Flower Thief and Other Tales of Yalda - 4. The Tale of Two Little Reeds - Third Scroll

The Door Left Open

Elaris, the day of thresholds and caution*
Starcall, twilight—when endings hover and change begins

It began with a door.
Not slammed. Not even shut loudly.
Just… left ajar.

Ailin had gone to the well for water before Starcall. The light had nearly gone by the time he returned, the kitchen door—usually bolted, always secured before the light faded—was open a sliver. The fading sky threw its last gleam across the threshold, casting long gold into the quiet room.

The floorboards just inside were marked. Damp prints. Not from boots.
His own feet. His own return.

But something about the chasm of that door in the quiet kitchen undid him.

He stood in the doorway a long while. Then, carefully, stepped through.

By the time Jaren found him—kneeling beside the hearth, staring blankly at the cold iron pot, his hands still dusted from shaping loaves—something in the room had shifted.
Not noise. Not light.

But pressure.

Like the past had crept in through that opening and now sat with them, heavy and invisible.

“Ailin?” Jaren asked gently.

No answer.

Jaren crouched beside him. “Are you okay?”

Ailin didn’t look at him. Didn’t sign. Didn’t move.

Jaren reached to touch his shoulder—and Ailin flinched.
Small. Almost imperceptible. But there.

Jaren paused. Lowered his hand.

“The door,” Ailin murmured at last. “It was open.”

Jaren blinked. “What door?”

“The back. I—I didn’t close it properly.”

Jaren tried to keep his voice even. “It’s all right. It’s Veilhour now. Everyone’s indoors.”

“I know,” Ailin said. Too quickly. Too flat.

Then, quieter:
“But I heard footsteps.”

Jaren didn’t answer right away. The fire had died down to embers.

“There weren’t any,” he said.

“There could have been.”

Jaren settled back on his heels. “Ailin… you’re safe now.”

Ailin’s hands moved slightly in his lap. Not a sign. Just motion.
Restless.

“I know,” he whispered again. A reflex. Not a truth.

Silence bloomed between them—
Not the Temple’s silence.
Not sacred.
Just absence.

“I could heat water,” Jaren said after a pause. “Or—would you rather go upstairs? Or the bakery? You don’t have to stay down here.”

“No,” Ailin said.
Then, suddenly: “Don’t go.”

Jaren stilled.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will.”

The words landed sharp—soft in volume, hard in weight.

Jaren breathed slowly. “Why do you think that?”

Ailin finally turned toward him.

His eyes shimmered—not crying, not breaking. Just… brimming. With something long-held.

“You’re brave,” he said. “And kind. And warm. You help people. What if one day you help someone else instead? What if they need you more?”

Jaren sat with that.

Then, softly, “It’s not a contest.”

Ailin shook his head. “I know. I just… I don’t know how to believe in staying. Not yet.”

Jaren reached out again.
This time, Ailin didn’t move away.

Their fingers touched—uncertain at first, then lacing quietly.

“I don’t know how either,” Jaren said. “But I want to learn. With you.”

Ailin breathed in, trembling. Then let his forehead drop gently to Jaren’s shoulder.

No resolution. No perfect words.

Just presence.

Outside, wind stirred the barley fields.
The kitchen door, still gently ajar, creaked once during Nightdeep. But did not open further.

*Elaris is a rare unofficial name, sometimes used in place of Lunel when a door is opened rather than shut.

The First Cold Night

Cira, weeks ago
Threshtide, just before dawn—when the world waits for light to return.

They hadn’t meant to stop.

Not yet. Not so soon.

But Nightdeep had swallowed the road, and the path past the marsh twisted too sharply to risk.
Too many places for sound to vanish.
Too many shapes that weren’t tree or wind.

They found a hollow beneath the roots of a fallen willow, dry enough if they didn’t move much. The air was damp. The leaves clung to everything. Their cloaks, too thin, let the wind crawl in like guilt.

Jaren sat with his knees drawn tight, arms wrapped close.
Ailin lay a little away, curled in the smallest shape he could make.

Neither spoke.

They hadn’t spoken since the Temple.

Not even to each other.

Their fingers had twitched once with the signs for safe? and yes, but the answer hadn’t felt true. So, neither said it again.

An owl cried from deep in the woods.
Branches shifted above.

Every crackle, every hush made Jaren’s spine go taut.
His body didn’t believe they were free.
Maybe never would.

Ailin stirred. A shiver. His arms pulled tighter around his chest.

Jaren hesitated. Then slowly, carefully, he crossed the few feet between them and laid a hand on Ailin’s back.

Ailin flinched—
But didn’t pull away.

Jaren stayed like that a moment. Then lay beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Quiet warmth. No request. Just offering.

After a breath, Ailin turned to face him.

Their eyes met. Dim glints in the dark.

Jaren raised a hand. Signed:
Cold?

Ailin nodded.

Jaren signed again:
Afraid?

A long pause.

Then Ailin reached out, took Jaren’s hand, and signed:
Yes.

Something eased between them.

Not safety.
Not comfort.

But recognition.

Jaren squeezed his fingers gently.

They didn’t speak again.

They didn’t need to.

And in that sliver of Threshtide, when the world lies between dark and dawn, they fell asleep.
Hands clasped.
Not warm. But not alone.

How Cold It Was

Noxen, in the Present-time
Silentmere, the pre-dawn hush—when memory stirs and voices can be safely heard.

The bakery was quiet.

So late that even the tavern across the square had gone dark.
Only the hearth still glowed, small but steady.

Ailin sat near the fire, barefoot, a half-mended flour sack resting in his lap. He wasn’t working. Just holding it. His fingers idled in the loose weave, like they remembered a rhythm but not the purpose.

Jaren sat nearby on the low stool, trimming rosemary sprigs for morning loaves.
He liked the smell—sharp, bright, alive.

They hadn’t spoken much tonight.
But it was a good silence. A known one.

Then Ailin said, softly:
“That first night.”

Jaren looked up. Ailin rarely began.

“Do you remember how cold it was?”

Jaren nodded. “Yes.”

“I couldn’t feel my fingers,” Ailin said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I kept thinking I’d drop something. That I’d make noise. That they’d find us because I was shivering too loud.”

Jaren set the rosemary aside. “I thought the same thing.”

Ailin glanced at him. The fire’s light softened the sharp lines of his face.

“But you moved closer anyway,” he said.

“I was scared,” Jaren admitted. “I didn’t know if you’d want me there. Or if I’d ruin something.”

“You didn’t.”
Ailin’s voice was quiet. Full of certainty. “You saved me.”

Jaren didn’t speak.

The fire cracked gently. Flour dust floated between them like stars that hadn’t decided whether to rise or fall.

“I almost spoke then,” Ailin said, not looking at him. “I wanted to say your name. Just once.”

“I didn’t know if I’d ever hear it again,” Jaren whispered. “Or if I’d forgotten the sound.”

“You didn’t.”
Ailin reached out, brushed his fingers against Jaren’s wrist.

“I remember it now,” he said. “Every time you speak, I remember a little more.”

Jaren smiled. Not wide. But steady.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “If you ever don’t want to speak. I still hear you.”

Ailin turned his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“I want to,” he said. “When it’s you.”

Jaren shifted closer, knees touching. The sack slid from his lap.

He didn’t pick it up. The fire’s warmth reached them both.

In silence, they sat like that—hands clasped, memory shared, the past no longer cold between them.

Just a small space carved out of the dark, where voices could be safe.

And heard.