[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/rFqmKNsx/Orion-Nightingale.png[/img][/center][hr][right][sub]Location: Orion's home--->Post Office 
Interactions/Mentions: Sya ([@PrinceAlexus]), Flynn, Eris ([@The Muse])[/sub][/right][hr]

[indent] Orion was already awake.

He had been for some time, though it was difficult to determine exactly how long. Time passed elusively here—there was no sun to track its rise, only the slow, creeping shift of cold air seeping deeper into the walls of his home. 

The room was silent except for the occasional soft crackle from the hearth, its flame small but persistent. He had not added more wood. There was no need. The cold did not bother him the way it once did.

He moved methodically, his motions precise, more out of habit than necessity. His carefully folded cloak was draped over the back of a chair, and his gloves lay beside it. Orion reached toward them absent-mindedly, his fingertips grazing their worn surface, only to pause abruptly.

Something else had caught his attention.

He had not set out to find it, but as he sifted through his belongings, ensuring nothing had been misplaced, his hand hovered over a familiar weight hidden beneath layers of fabric. 

Slowly, his fingers curled around the small treasure, pulling it free.

Orion held the delicate locket, its silver surface catching and refracting the waning light. The metal was cool against his skin, carved intricately with floral motifs whose elegance had dulled only slightly with the passage of years. A single imperfection marred its hinge—a subtle scar, as if left deliberately by fate to remind him of hands other than his own that had held it.

Orion remembered vividly the day he reclaimed it from Eris; the exchange had been courteous yet terse, his anger and frustration at Willis’s intrusion barely tapered down. Thus, complete gratitude had been difficult, burdened by memory. Now however, cradling the fragile object in his palm, he could not dismiss the heaviness of what it represented. It was a fragment of another life, preserved in metal and sentiment, tethered to him irrevocably yet feeling strangely foreign in his grasp.

He turned it over in his palm, thumb tracing along the edge before pressing against the small indent. A soft click.

The locket unfurled, revealing the drawing within.

A woman, brunette, delicate in frame but not in presence, cradling a child. Though the ink had dimmed like memory softened by time's gentle hand, its details persisted. The subtle arc of her smile lingered, etched with an enduring warmth. Her fingers curled tenderly around the child's shoulder as if holding something infinitely precious and equally fragile. 

Then there was the child himself.

His son.

Ten years old now.

Orion stared at the boy’s likeness, committing every detail to memory, though he knew it was already outdated. How much had he grown? Had his features sharpened, taken on more of his mother’s angular grace or Orion’s own once-human countenance? Was his voice deeper now? Did he still laugh the same way?

These contemplations were not idle curiosity born from paternal absence alone.

His son had known him once.

Orion had been present for those nascent years, holding him, guiding small fingers in exploration of the world’s simplest wonders. He could vividly recall the warmth of those moments and could conclude that there was nothing like the joy that spilled freely from a child discovering life under the protective gaze of a father who believed, in those fleeting days, he might shield his family from harm’s reach.

But what would his son see now if he could?

Orion’s grip on the locket tightened.

What had his wife told their son? Had she painted Orion as lost to duty, a man who had been taken by the course of fate? Or had she told him the truth—that his father still lived, but not in the way he once had?

Had the boy’s memories of him begun to warp, shifting from something warm to something distant? Was he waiting for Orion to come home?

Or had he already accepted that his father never would?

And what of her? Would the woman who had once gazed upon Orion with warmth and trust now regard him as a ghostly remnant of someone long lost? He wondered, with quiet anguish concealed beneath stoicism’s practiced veil, whether he would repulse her still, or if, perhaps, she could glimpse beneath the surface and find remnants worthy of compassion or even redemption.

Could their son?

The flame in the hearth sputtered.

And then, without ceremony, he snapped the locket shut. 

For a moment, Orion remained still, the weight of the past pressing heavily against him. But the past did not change. No matter how often he held onto its remnants, it remained as it was—untouchable. It was the present that demanded his attention. 

Still…

His gaze shifted abruptly, drawn toward the sturdy oak desk standing solemnly in the corner.

The events of the preceding day loitered now at the periphery of his mind, fragmented yet relentless.The prince, frustrated but resolute, sitting before him, seeking counsel in the privacy of his study. Orion had spoken plainly, cautioning Flynn against letting others define his choices for him. [i]You must seize agency over your choice, lest another defines its significance on your behalf. [/i] He had meant it as advice, but the words now echoed back at him with a sort of irony.

His wife had exercised her choice once.

And he, too, had chosen.

And now, here they were with an abyss carved wide and fathomless between them as a result of those choices. 

A slow exhalation escaped Orion's lungs, releasing a breath burdened with resignation, as he crossed towards the desk. The chair creaked softly as he sat, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment.

A moment passed, ink glistening on the nib of his pen, hesitation lingering at the threshold of intent. Then, with quiet decisiveness, he pressed the tip to the page.

[i][color=#0054a6]My Dearest Evangeline[/color][/i],

[hr] 

The post office was quiet when Orion stepped inside, the scent of ink and old parchment thick in the air. A small iron stove crackled in the corner, casting weak warmth against the cold seeping in through the door frame. The snowfall had made foot traffic scarce, and the only sound was the scratching of the postmaster’s quill as he sorted through letters. 

Orion approached the counter without a word, reaching into his coat and producing the envelope he had sealed earlier that morning. The wax had cooled smoothly over the parchment, pressed with the faint impression of his family’s insignia—a habit he had not yet abandoned. He set it down in front of the postmaster, who glanced up briefly before taking it.

“[b]Delivery fee,[/b]” the man stated gruffly, not bothering with pleasantries.

Orion wordlessly placed the necessary coin beside the letter.

The transaction was done. He turned to leave.

“[b]Ah. Wait a moment.[/b]” The postmaster's voice stalled his steps. “[b]There's something for you, Lord Nightingale.[/b]”

Orion stilled.

For him?

He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly as the postmaster rifled through a stack of newly arrived correspondence. After a moment, the man withdrew a single envelope, its wax seal a deep, almost crimson red, stamped without a house crest. Instead, a looping script adorned its face, the handwriting unfamiliar to him.

Orion reached for it, his fingers gliding over the rough texture of the paper. He had not expected a letter.

Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment and read.

Orion’s eyes traced the words, unmoving. His expression remained impassive for a long moment—until a sound, so unfamiliar that it startled even him, escaped his lips.

A small, abrupt laugh.

It was brief, involuntary. But it was there. Real.

The realization hit him at the same time as the postmaster’s raised brow, and Orion quickly covered the sound with a cough, clearing his throat as if dismissing some imaginary irritation. He folded the letter swiftly and held it up slightly in acknowledgment.

“[color=#0054a6]Thank you,[/color]” he said, his voice as even as ever.

Without waiting for a response, he slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat, turned on his heel, and stepped back into the snowfall.
[/indent]