Lanterns in the Fog

The hum of the road accompanied them in silence as the car left the Avienne Hall behind. Moonlight filtered through the windshield, casting long silver shadows across the dashboard. Callum's hand remained on Seraphine's thigh, not possessive, not idle—just steady, as if grounding himself.

"Let's stop somewhere," he said suddenly.

Seraphine turned her gaze toward him. His voice wasn't rough with drunkenness tonight, only low—too calm to be normal.

"Where?" she asked.

"Find me a store along the way."

A pause.

When they arrived, Seraphine stayed in the car. Callum stepped out alone, his shoes clicking against the wet pavement. The store's bell jingled overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly as he walked the short aisle of beverages. His eyes swept across familiar bottles, all neatly shelved and categorized—until they landed on two dark-glass containers that resembled whiskey but bore the brand of a healthy drink. 

He grabbed them both and went to the counter.

"Do you have a cup?" he asked the cashier.

The woman blinked, then handed her two paper cups from beneath the counter. Callum nodded her thanks and poured the drinks in each. "These are yours, he added.

The two cashiers smiled, thinking he was flirting with them. Then, with a smirk, he paid and walked out into the quiet night.

In the car, Callum took one look at the bottles and gave a soft, approving hum.

They drove to the park in silence.

Arrived. Before they go out, Callum took the hidden whiskey in his car and poured its contents into the two bottles he had emptied earlier. The alcohol's scent was a rose that is sharply—sweet, smoky, with a burn hiding beneath the surface.

The bench they stopped at was already familiar to him—shadowed beneath a flowering tree, lit faintly by an overhead lamppost. The kind of place lovers once passed by. Or where lonely men sat to remember how love used to feel.

They took their places without speaking. The wind was cold enough to bite, but Callum didn't seem to feel it. He uncapped the bottles and 

He handed her the other bottle. They clinked them together gently before sipping.

It was stronger than she expected. A slow warmth slid down her throat and settled behind her ribs.

Minutes passed. They drank slowly.

Callum didn't speak, not until his head rested on her shoulder again. There was something childlike about the way he leaned, the same way he had leaned in the car after the wedding. But this time, it wasn't sorrow pouring out of him. It was stillness. As though he could finally rest, just for a while.

And then—

"How did you and Dahlia meet?"

Her voice cut gently into the night.

He didn't lift his head. Didn't blink. But she could feel the breath he released—heavy, slow. Not annoyed. Not startled.

Just weighed down by the truth.

Callum lifted the bottle to his lips and finished what remained. He sat up straighter after that and rested his elbows on his knees, staring out at the park's small, quiet fountain where water burbled quietly in rhythmic streams.

"I was nineteen," he said, voice steady but low. "She was a transfer student, older than me by a year. Came into the university mid-year, already carrying too much on her shoulders. I noticed her because she looked… tired. But never small. Then, at home, I found out she was Head Maid Celia's daughter."

Seraphine said nothing.

"I didn't talk to her the first few weeks. She was in the economic policy track. I was already heading to be primed for the company. But she started tutoring some of the scholarship students. I saw her helping this boy—barely sixteen—learn math formulas after class. I remember watching from across the courtyard."

He gave a faint chuckle, but it wasn't humorous.

"She was wearing this oversized coat. Looked ridiculous on her. But she never cared how she looked. Never once tried to draw attention. She only smiled when someone else was struggling. That's when I knew I wanted to be in that smile's reach."

Seraphine turned slightly toward him, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed ahead—at nothing and everything.

"We became friends. She helped me cheat on a pop quiz once. Later, said I owed her dinner. And that dinner became two. Then more. Then, it became a date."

A pause.

"But my total fall was when I was twenty-two, when my mother died. Dahlia was supposed to study abroad, but she stayed with me. She was the clown who tricked my sorrowful world into wonderland. She was my sanity when my world turned red and black."

Another pause.

"Did you fall in love quickly?" Seraphine asked.

Callum blinked slowly.

"I thought I did. But love isn't quick, is it?" He finally looked at her. "It's slow. It builds like weight in your chest. Some days it's warm. Some days it's suffocating. But always, it's the best reason to live. "

Seraphine's fingers curled around her empty cup.

"Did she love you the same way?" she asked quietly.

Callum gave a bitter, thoughtful smile.

"I guess... more than," he whispered. "But love needs freedom. And when I brought her into my world, she lost all of hers."

Seraphine looked away, toward the distant city skyline. Lights flickered in windows, and headlights gleamed like ghosts across the streets.

"Do you regret it?" she asked.

"I regret failing her," Callum answered. "I regret making her think I could protect her from everything when I couldn't even protect her mother."

They sat in silence after that. The wind was growing colder, curling around their coats, but neither moved to leave.

Finally, Callum tilted his head again. Not to rest. Just to look at her.

"And you," he asked. "Why do you stay?"

Her lips twitched.

"Because someone needs to keep your bones warm while you break."

He laughed—quietly, breathless.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For making you carry pieces of someone's."

Seraphine shook her head.

"I'm not carrying her pieces. I'm watching over yours."

They stood not long after. The park was nearly empty now, the city sleeping beyond its gates.

At the trash bin, they discarded their bottles.

---

On the way back to the car, he took her hand again—not urgently, not theatrically.

Just tightly. Warm. It's like another habit was building up within him. It is because holding her hand tighter reminds him of his identity- of who he should be with.

And Seraphine let him.