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From that day on, Kaela did not fear the mist. She walked into it willingly, basket in hand, and spoke the old words back to the faceless man. She reminded him of joy, of laughter, of the name he once had. And slowly, piece by piece, the mist began to thin.

She had wandered too far picking moonberries, the fog rolling in from the lake like a slow, silver tide. The world turned soft, edges bleeding into white. Then came the voice—not loud, not close, but inside her skull, as if her own thoughts had grown a second tongue. Ese Per Dimrin

She remembered a war fought with songs. A city built inside a single teardrop. A king who traded his shadow for a second chance. And she remembered his name—not Ese Per Dimrin, but what came before. From that day on, Kaela did not fear the mist

Ese Per Dimrin.

The mist curled around her ankles, then her knees, then her throat. It was cold, but not the cold of winter. The cold of absence —as if the mist was not water, but the space where memories had been ripped out. And slowly, piece by piece, the mist began to thin

Ese Per Dimrin. The one who waited. The one who was remembered.