The Anomaly's Path-Chapter 67: An Echo in the Dark

[Roran’s POV]

The wind on the eastern ridge always bit harder than in the village. It carried the scent of salt from the distant coast and the damp rot of the jungle, but up here, between these two jagged stones, the air always felt still.

Like time had stopped the moment the shovels hit the dirt.

I stood there, my boots sinking into the soft earth I had paced over a thousand times. I did not say anything at first. I just looked at the smaller stone on the right.

Clara.

I reached out, my calloused thumb brushing the moss away from the inscription I had carved with a shaking hand seven years ago.

Seven years.

Had it really been that long?

I sank down onto the cold ground, my back against the larger stone, the bottle heavy in my hand. I pulled the cork with my teeth and spat it into the grass. Then I tilted the bottle, letting a long stream of amber liquid splash onto the earth in front of her grave. An old habit. A stupid one, probably. But it felt wrong not to.

"I am back," I said, my voice rough. "...Again."

The wind did not answer.

I took a long drink, letting the cheap liquor burn its way down my throat. The fire in my chest was familiar. Welcomed. It was something to feel besides the hollow ache that never really went away.

"Seven years," I muttered, staring at the stone. "It has been almost seven years, and it still feels like yesterday."

I set the bottle down and pulled the locket from under my shirt. The metal was warm from my skin, worn smooth from years of touching it. I clicked it open and looked at her face.

That smile. That damn smile that could make everything else disappear.

"The village is the same," I said quietly. "Marta is still bossing everyone around. The orphanage is full of kids who do not have anyone else. Mia is running the place like a little general. She has your fire, you know. That stubbornness. That refusal to let anyone see her break."

I paused, my thumb tracing the curve of her painted cheek.

"There is this kid," I continued. "Leo. I met him a few weeks ago. He is an interesting one, I will give him that. Covered in scars and half-dead when he first showed up. Just some noble brat playing at being a warrior."

I let out a short, dry laugh that felt hollow in my chest. "He is annoying. Incredibly persistent. He keeps showing up at my door every single morning, asking me to train him. I keep saying no, but he does not seem to understand the word."

I looked at the grave, at the wildflowers growing along its base.

"He reminds me of someone," I whispered. "Someone I used to be. Before..."

I did not finish the sentence. I did not need to.

I took another drink.

"I do not know how to live without you, Clara. I forgot how."

I did not know how long I sat there. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky had turned a deep shade of purple. The stars were beginning to appear, scattered across the darkness like seeds thrown by an indifferent hand.

That was when I heard it, a sharp crunch of dry leaves broke the silence.

My hand went to the knife at my belt, my body tensing.

"Who is there?" I called out, my voice harder than I intended.

No answer.

I turned, ready to—

Leo stepped out from behind a tree.

"...Kid?!"

_

[Leo’s POV]

One hour earlier...

Elder Marta’s words echoed in my head as I walked through the darkening village.

"He is at the hill beyond the eastern ridge. The one with the willow tree. That is where they are buried."

I did not know what I was going to say when I got there. I did not know if I should say anything at all. Maybe just sitting there was enough. Maybe just being present was all he needed.

Marta had told me enough. Roran had lost someone. His wife. His child. He had been carrying that weight alone for years, drowning it in cheap liquor and bad gambling.

I could not fix that. I knew I could not.

But I could sit with him. Or at least listen to him.

The path to the ridge was steep, cutting through the jungle and up into the rocky hills that bordered the village. The trees thinned out as I climbed, replaced by tall grass and scattered boulders.

Then I saw it.

The willow tree. Its branches trailing the ground like curtains, hiding the graves beneath.

And Roran.

He was sitting against the larger stone, his back to me, a bottle in his hand. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, and even from a distance, I could feel the weight of him.

I stopped at the edge of the clearing, hidden by the shadows, and listened.

"I do not know how to live without you, Clara. I forgot how."

I waited a moment, letting the words settle. Then I stepped forward, my boots crunching on the dry leaves.

Roran’s head snapped up. His hand went to his knife.

"Who is there?"

I stepped into the light.

He stared at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his face caught somewhere between anger and exhaustion. "What are you doing here?"

I did not answer. I walked closer until I reached the graves, looked down at the names carved into the stone, and bowed my head. Then I sat down a few feet away from him, my back against a rock, my sword resting across my knees.

The night was quiet around us. The stars had fully emerged now, scattered across the sky like seeds thrown by an indifferent hand. The moon hung low, casting pale light over the graves and the willow tree.

Roran stared at me, his jaw tight, his hand still resting on the knife at his belt. But he did not tell me to leave.He just looked at me, then at the grave, then back at me.

Then he sighed, leaned back against the stone, and looked up at the stars.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then—

"...Her name was Clara," he said finally, his voice quieter than I had ever heard it.

I looked at him but did not say anything.

"She was... she was everything this world isn’t. Kind. Patient. She had this way of looking at you that made you believe you were actually the hero you pretended to be."

He paused, staring at the grave.

"She loved children. She used to say that every kid deserved a chance, no matter where they came from or what they had done." A small smile touched his lips. "She would have loved the orphanage. She would have spent every day there if she could."

"...She sounds like an amazing person," I said quietly.

He nodded. "She was."

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the edge of the locket in his hand. Then he looked at me.

"She would have liked you, you know. She would have loved to meet a stubborn brat like you. She always had a soft spot for the ones who didn’t know when to quit."

I did not know what to say to that, so I just nodded.

We sat in silence for a while longer. The wind moved through the willow branches, rustling the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out, its voice soft and low.

Then Roran spoke again.

"She used to tell me something," he said, his voice cracking. "When things got hard. When I doubted myself. When I thought I was not good enough."

"..."

"She would look at me with those green eyes of hers, and she would say... ’Roran, you are the strongest person I know. Not because you never fall. Because you always get back up.’"

His voice broke on the last words.

I looked at him. At the tears he was trying to hide. At the weight he had been carrying for years.

"I do not know what happened to you in the past, Roran," I said quietly. "I cannot even imagine the pain. But I do know one thing."

He looked at me.

"If I were in your place, if I lost someone important to me like that..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "It would be hard for me to recover. I don’t think I would have survived it. The fact that you are still here, still hanging on—that makes you stronger than you think."

I looked him straight in the eyes. "I think she would have thought you were an amazing person for staying. For still being here."

Roran’s eyes widened. He looked at me like I had struck him, his lips trembling as he tried to find a retort, an insult, anything to push the kindness away. But he couldn’t.

And then he heard it—

"...You are an amazing person, Roran. Do not ever forget that."

The voice was soft and warm. Faint, like an echo from somewhere far away.

Roran’s breath caught.

"Clara..." he whispered.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment he was trying to remember the memories he had buried deep within himself.

Then he opened his eyes, looked at the grave, and let out a long, shaky breath.

"...Ah."

He did not say anything else. He just sat there, staring at the stone, his thumb tracing the name he had carved with his own hands.

I did not say anything either. I just sat with him, my back against the rock, my sword across my knees, and waited.

The night stretched on around us.

And then, after a long time, Roran spoke again.

"You want to know what happened?" he asked, his voice low.

I looked at him. "...Only if you want to tell me."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

"It started a long time ago," he said. "Before I left this village. Before any of this..."

He looked up at the stars, and I could see it in his eyes—the memories he had been running from for the past years, finally surfacing.

"I was young, stupid, and full of dreams." He let out a hollow laugh. "I thought I could save everyone. I thought I could be a hero."

I listened.

"Her name was Clara," he said again, softer this time. "I met her during my mercenary days."

He fell silent, staring at the grave. The wind moved through the willow branches, rustling the leaves, but he did not seem to notice.

I did not push. I just waited.

Then he spoke again.

"It started a long time ago..."