Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Twenty two~ Talion

Visenya

The brush glides through my hair in long, patient strokes, from crown to end, as though gentleness alone might keep the world from knotting again. The bristles whisper against my scalp, a soft, steady sound that fills the chamber more faithfully than silence ever could.

Beyond the tall window, the night has settled into itself—deep and watchful. The moon hangs low and full, a pale presence in the dark, not a promise exactly, but a witness.

The stone beneath my bare feet still holds warmth. Dragonstone always does. The air near the window carries salt and old smoke, familiar as breath. I draw it in slowly, letting the island's rhythm steady my own.

The sea rolls and breaks below.

Something tightens in my chest at the sound. There are moments—too many now—when the world feels as though it is missing a note it once held without effort. A dissonance that never quite resolves. I press my lips together and breathe the way I have learned to, careful and controlled, before memory can rise too quickly.

The water shifts and pulls as though it has its own heartbeat, answering the moon the way bones answer weather. I feel it in myself, low and deep—an ache that has nothing to do with wounds and everything to do with absence.

As I have every night since my return, I sit by the window and look upward, as I sail seas of emotion.

Grief does not pass through lightly.

It settles. It makes its home in the bones. It hums in my ribs when I breathe, threads itself along my spine, waits in the quiet moments when there is no one left to witness my composure. It is not loud. It simply is—constant, like a limb the body still expects to move.

I resume brushing, counting the strokes without meaning to. One. Two. Three. The rhythm anchors me. I think of how quickly things tilt like the tide. How a single moment can become another, and how rarely we are given the chance to return.

The brush catches, just slightly.

I slow at once, easing the tension. I have learned that force only breaks what is already fragile. My hair slips free, dark and obedient, gleaming softly in the candlelight. I gather it over one shoulder, the familiar weight grounding me in the present.

I pause, the brush held midway, and close my eyes.

When I open them, the sea is still there.

Waiting.

Storm-grey.

The color settles over me with unexpected steadiness. My grip loosens on the brush. A long breath escapes, my shoulders easing as tension slips away.

I finish brushing and let my hair fall down my back, dark and loose, warmed by my skin. I step closer to the window and rest my palm against the warm stone.

I remain there for a long while, letting the night hold me.

Grief in my bones. Hope in my heart.

And the moon above—reminding me that even in darkness, something is always watching.

I watch as the moonlight spills through the window in a pale, silvery wash, slipping across the floor and climbing the stone walls carved with dragons. It drifts toward the small table near the bed and lingers there, as though drawn by more than chance.

The wooden wolf waits.

It is carved simply but with care—clean lines, an alert posture, head lifted as if listening for something beyond the room. Moonlight settles along its back, catching in the shallow grooves left by the carver's blade.