The fire was still burning somewhere.
But here, on the rooftop, the world was quiet.

Julin sat with his legs dangling over the edge, a half-burned apple in his hand. The night air smelled of stone and ash.

He didn’t look at her.
Not yet.

But he knew she was there.

Ziya stood at the far corner of the rooftop, her cloak drawn close. She was watching the city — or what remained of it.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then:

“Why do you trust me, Julin?”
Her voice was soft. Uncertain.

He almost smiled.
Almost.

“Because,” he said, “when the city burned... only your eyes stayed calm.”

Ziya turned slightly.
Not enough to show her whole face. Just enough to let the moonlight catch her eyes.

“Calm doesn’t mean I’m not afraid,” she said.

Julin shrugged.

“I know. But calm is rare. And fear, I’ve seen enough of.”

The silence returned.

Far below, a cannon fired.
Neither of them flinched.

Their hands were close now. Not touching. Not yet.
But close enough to feel the heat of skin and the weight of things left unsaid.

“Do you believe in love, Ziya?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.
She just looked at the city again.
At the crumbling towers, the broken bells, the sky painted with smoke.

“I believe in fire,” she whispered.
“Sometimes… that’s the same thing.”