I flinched. It was someone I didn't think I'd ever hear again.

My eyes snapped open as I turned to face the source of that voice. To my left, there was a man sitting on the front steps leading up to that establishment. I was almost certain he hadn't been there just a few moments ago.

He was silently staring up at the night sky above us, his blue eyes fixated on the scene of the stars and moon. To me, it was the eyes of a dead man despite life still being breathing into his body.

It couldn’t be him. I’d seen him die in front of me, and yet, he had the same voice, the same eyes and the same face I’d seen in that ditch. Only this time, he wasn’t actively bleeding from his abdomen. In fact, he seemed in perfect health as though he hadn’t even been shot in the first place.

From his attire alone, he appeared as an entirely different man. There were no creases in the fabric, every inch seemingly pressed into perfection. Even with what little knowledge I had about clothing, I could still tell his were of high quality. It was the kind made to outlast you.

And that alone, despite the muted colour of his suit—a dark brown over a grey waistcoat—made him stand out. His blonde hair was neatly slicked back, every strand where it should be without even one out of place. It was a stark difference from the rugged uniform he’d worn before and that dishevelled head of hair hidden under his helmet.

But there was also a scar. A faint one that ran along his jaw, and was the only hint of the man I’d met on that battlefield. But while jarring, that imperfection did little to tarnish his otherwise flawless appearance.

He wore this look of contentment on his face that masked whatever thoughts ran through his mind. I glanced around, but there was no one else nearby, meaning it had to be me who he was, unfortunately, addressing. However, his reason was unclear since he showed no indication of recognising me yet.

“It’s the same as any other night," I finally responded before looking up to the same sky he was gazing upon. There wasn't anything unusual—there were just stars—so what exactly drew him in?

“True,” he said, his voice resonant yet holding this soothing quality that was so unlike the strained tone he carried that day. “But I do like the consistency of it all.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, and frankly, I didn’t care enough to ask. But unfortunately, he decided to continue anyway.

“No matter how much time passes or life changes, the stars and moon all remain the same. I find that to be rather comforting actually, wouldn’t you agree?”

His gaze left the sky and shifted toward me, and as his blue eyes finally met mine, I waited for any indication that he knew who I was. It’d be troublesome if he did. There was no saying what he'd do if he knew I was a Candeurian soldier, and Davis was the only one I trusted to know the truth about my identity during the war.

It would be easier to move on that way.

But this man just looked at me as though I were a stranger to him. Although, he seemed far too relaxed for someone trying to make conversation with an apparent stranger. It was odd. His eyes seemed neither sad nor happy, just content. It was the look of a man simply existing.

Either he really didn’t recognise me or just a good actor.

“Do you usually start conversations with strangers on the street, sir?” I asked, ignoring his question entirely.

“No, not usually. But, after a few drinks, I seem to lose some of my sensibilities.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. Despite the faint scent of alcohol that I could smell from his breath, he appeared fully sober. However, his sanity was questionable even if he denied a tendency to pursue social engagement with strangers on the street.

“Then consider abstaining from alcohol.”'

I was starting to think he genuinely didn’t recognise me. Did that morphine work a little too well on him? But, on the off chance he would suddenly remember, perhaps it’d be best for me to run away.

“You’re probably right,” he agreed, his expression showing no malice or offence to my recommendation. “But it does help the night go by faster.”

“So you want the night to move by faster?”

“Sometimes. There are days when morning feels as if it cannot arrive fast enough, and yet, there are certain nights which I never want to end.”

“And which nights are those?”

“Most definitely the ones spent sitting on the street and being lectured about my drinking habits," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

I gave him a blank look. Expecting a serious response from this man was clearly a mistake, so without saying another word, I turned my eyes away from him. Perhaps if I didn’t acknowledge his presence for long enough, he would go away.

“Are you trying to ignore me right now, Miss?”

“Yes.”

I thought I had made my point rather clear, but this man seemed to find the situation more amusing than anything. He chuckled as an annoyingly soft smile appeared on his face. “You shouldn’t be so blunt. Another man would’ve been offended by your words”

“And you're not?”

He paused for a moment, considering my question before shaking his head. “No, surprisingly not. I find it more refreshing than anything.”

I expected him to elaborate further, but he didn’t. Unlike others who often wore their feelings plainly on their face or conveyed them with words, this man did neither. It made it harder to understand his intentions. Did he really just want to speak to a stranger?

“Could you not find someone else to talk to?”

“Why should I? I have a perfectly fine conversation partner right here,” he said with a smile that irked me. “But if you didn't want to be bothered, maybe you should've considered a less busy street."

“Sir, there is no one else here but you.”

“And yet you’re also here practically sulking on the side of the road.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Expressing my emotions in such a manner that he described was not something I’d done before.

“Sulking?”

“It does seem that way, Miss. Although if that was your aim, surely there are more practical places to sulk?”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Then why are you out here so late? Especially right outside a bar with seemingly no intention to go inside?” he asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. “Was it a lover’s quarrel? An argument with your family? Or do you just enjoy watching drunks come out to make a fool of themselves—”

“I just need to pass the time," I said, cutting him off from continuing his, frankly, ridiculous list of possibilities. My arms tightened around my legs as I lowered my chin.

“You want to pass the time?”

“That’s right.”

His expression dulled, the teasing glint in his eyes fading. He sighed sighing and stared at the ground. “Then it seems we’re both here for similar reasons.”

There was a brief moment of silence that washed over the both of us. That teasing look earlier had hidden the weariness now laid bare in his eyes. I sighed quietly before finally speaking up again.

“Sir, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you please stop talking?”

He stared, blinking blankly a few times and taken aback by my bluntness. “Well that was rather direct,” he remarked, but he again didn’t seem upset or offended by my words.

“I thought you said my bluntness was refreshing. But, I can rephrase it more politely if you’d prefer.”

“There's no need, I don’t need you to sugarcoat it. Besides, I wouldn’t mind the quiet,” he said as he looked away from me and back up towards the sky. “But would you mind if I stayed here? I’m afraid you’ve stolen one of my favourite sulking spots.”

Outside a bar? Maybe he was an alcoholic after all. Either way, it was no business of mine and his reference to ‘sulking’ made it seem like he was teasing me again. I should’ve just exited the conversation and left him here on the side of the road without testing my luck on this man’s memory. But instead, for whatever reason, I decided to stay.

“Do what you want.”

We sat there, several feet apart and yet still close enough to be considered within each other's company. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there just gazing up at the sky trying to search for the same meaning this man saw among the stars.

There was something different about him. While he was as quippy as before, he was more reserved and restrained than the man I'd met down in those trenches. It was to the point I almost doubted if he was the same man at all.

I thought that after some time he would try to speak up again, but he didn’t utter another word or try to fill the silence between us. It was as if I was not there to him at all, and he was not there to me. There was only a mutual agreement between us to immerse in the night as time passed.

While everyone else seemed persistent to fill moments like this with menial small talk, this man appeared comfortable with the quiet. Just as I was.