The old tree stood sentinel by the riverbank, its gnarled roots twisting into the water like skeletal fingers. Its leaves—unnaturally silver, like frozen moonlight—rustled softly in the breeze, casting shifting shadows over the two boys. Beneath the surface, mechanical fish darted between the roots, their metallic scales catching the light in fleeting, knife-bright flashes. This was their place. The only place where the cameras didn’t linger, where the Segyeins’ voices didn’t reach. Here, the air didn’t smell like antiseptic or fear. Here, the world was quiet.

Till sat with his back against the trunk, knees drawn up to his chest. A sketchpad rested precariously on his thighs, its pages smudged with charcoal and frustration. His fingers—calloused, scarred—clutched the pencil like it was a weapon, knuckles white with tension. The lines on the paper were too harsh, too stiff. Nothing like the way Mizi’s laughter crinkled her eyes, nothing like the way her hair caught the light when she ran through the garden. He’d tried three times already. Three times, he’d torn the paper away, crushed it in his fist, and thrown it into the water. The fish had learned to scatter at the sound.

The fourth attempt was no better. Her smile—god, her smile—it wasn’t right. It was just shapes on paper, empty curves. Not her. Never her. His stomach twisted. He could hear her voice in his head, teasing: “Since when do you draw, Till? You can’t even hold a pencil right.” He gritted his teeth. The paper crumpled under his grip.

Then he felt it—the weight of eyes on him. Ivan. Always Ivan. Watching, waiting, like some patient ghost. Till didn’t need to look up to know the expression on his face: that infuriating, unreadable calm. As if he understood. As if he could ever understand.

The pencil snapped between his fingers.

“What?” Till’s voice was a blade, sharp and brittle. “You got something to say? Or you just gonna sit there staring like some creep?”

He flung the broken pieces into the grass. The lead left a dark smear across his palm. He wiped it furiously against his already-stained pants. The sketchpad slid to the ground, pages splayed open—a graveyard of failed attempts. Mizi’s face, half-formed, stared up at him from every sheet. Wrong. All wrong.

The silence stretched.