Night crept in slowly, crawling through the cracks of the ruined house like a patient shadow. The basement was dim, lit only by the fragile candle Elizabeth held in her palms. The flame swayed whenever the wind hissed through the broken floorboards above, painting trembling gold across her face.
Ana and her father slept nearby, their bodies curled together in exhausted relief. Only their breathing filled the stillness.
But Lucas couldn't sleep.
His mind replayed the day in fragments
the shattering chapel,
Elizabeth's trembling voice amid the fire,
the girl beneath the beam,
the soldiers in the smoke.
He sat with his back against the cold wall, hands around his cracked violin, eyes fixed on the faint glow clinging to Elizabeth's fingers. She sat across from him, silent, her expression unreadable, her posture straight despite the exhaustion crushing them all.
"You're not resting," Lucas whispered.
Elizabeth lifted her eyes. "Neither are you."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "I'm not built for rest."
"That's not true."
Her voice was soft, but carried truth like an arrow.
Lucas looked away. "War reshapes people."
"It only reshapes what we allow."
Another gust of wind slipped through the old floor above, blowing her veil gently. She held the candle closer to her chest as if shielding a small living thing.
"Why do you keep that lit?" he asked. "We're underground. No one can see it."
Elizabeth turned the candle slightly, watching the flame lean. "It doesn't need to be seen to matter."
Lucas sighed. "You talk like someone who's never lost anything."
She blinked slowly. "I've lost more than you know."
Her tone shifted quieter, heavier. Lucas studied her carefully. He had seen her peaceful, he had seen her afraid, he had seen her stubborn. But this was the first time he saw her brittle.
"Tell me," he said gently.
But she shook her head, clutching the candle tighter. "Not tonight."
Lucas nodded and didn't push further. Silence settled again, thicker now.
The candlelight shimmered across the carved walls, revealing old symbols etched into the stone circles, lines, remnants of prayers written by hands long gone. Elizabeth traced them with her gaze, as if reading a forgotten scripture.
"You were a musician," she said finally.
Lucas blinked. "I was."
"Did you stop playing when the war began?"
"No."
He looked at his broken violin. "I stopped when I lost the people who listened."
Her eyes softened. "But music doesn't die unless you let it."
"I'm not sure I believe that."
Elizabeth held his gaze steadily. "Then let me believe for you."
The sincerity in her voice cut through him more sharply than the explosions outside ever could.
Before he could reply, Ana whimpered in her sleep. Elizabeth moved immediately, kneeling beside the girl and touching her forehead.
"Hush, little one," she whispered. "It's only the wind."
Ana calmed, curling into her father's chest. Elizabeth brushed her hair softly before returning to Lucas.
"You care for people too easily," Lucas murmured.
"Someone has to."
"Why you?"
She paused, her expression shifting. "Because no one cared for me when I needed it most."
Her voice trembled once.
Lucas's chest tightened at the crack in her tone. He had sensed there was a wound beneath her calm, but hearing it confirmed made something inside him ache.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Elizabeth shook her head. "Don't be. Pain taught me how to stay when others run."
The words hung in the air heavy, honest, raw.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling across the dead city like a last warning from the sky.
Lucas studied her in the dim light: the soot on her cheek, the dampness at the corner of her eyes, the exhaustion etched into her shoulders. And yet she sat with a strength that didn't feel human more like something divine pressed into fragile skin.
"Elizabeth…" he began, but footsteps echoed above them before he could continue.
Heavy. Unsteady.
Two sets this time.
Then metal scraping rock.
Lucas motioned sharply. Elizabeth extinguished the candle instantly, plunging them into darkness. Ana's father clutched his daughter protectively.
Lucas gripped the iron rod from earlier, his breath shallow. The footsteps grew louder, then slower… then stopped directly above the trapdoor again.
A different voice this time harsh, commanding.
"They must be somewhere. Spread out."
Lucas's pulse tightened. Soldiers.
Elizabeth touched his arm a feather-light gesture but in the dark, it steadied him more than he expected.
The soldiers above shifted debris, the grinding noise crawling through the house.
One of them jumped down onto the floor directly above the basement. Dust rained over Lucas's hair. Another soldier approached, bootsteps echoing like a judge's gavel.
Ana whimpered, too soft to hear but Elizabeth covered her mouth gently.
The trapdoor creaked slightly with the weight above it.
Please… Lucas thought. Please don't open it.
The footsteps paused.
A long silence.
Then
the soldiers moved away, muttering about returning at dawn.
Elizabeth let out a trembling breath. The darkness made her sound smaller.
Lucas touched her arm. "You did well."
"So did you," she whispered.
They waited another few minutes before Elizabeth relit the candle, shielding it carefully.
Lucas exhaled shakily. "You're brave."
"No." Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm terrified."
He watched her quietly. "Then why don't you run?"
Elizabeth looked at him with eyes that shone softly in the candlelight.
"Because running never saved anyone. Staying has."
Her courage made his own fear feel cowardly.
"Lucas," she said gently, "what do you want when this war ends?"
He froze. He didn't know how to answer. No one had asked him that in years. No one had cared.
"I don't know," he said at last. "I stopped thinking about the future."
She studied him with a sadness he didn't understand. "The future still thinks about you."
He swallowed hard. "And you? What do you want?"
Her gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling they could not see.
"To hear a prayer answered," she whispered. "Just one."
He wanted to ask what prayer.
But something in her voice told him it was too sacred to touch.
Another quiet settled, warmer this time.
Lucas raised the violin again.
Elizabeth's eyes widened. "You'll play?"
"If you listen."
"I always listen."
He pressed the bow to the one repaired string.
The note that rose was fractured ghostly but alive, stretching across the basement like a thin shaft of moonlight. It filled every corner softly, merging with the tremble of candlelight.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, her lips parting just slightly.
Her shoulders loosened.
Her breath steadied.
Her pain exhaled.
Lucas watched her as he played, unable to look away.
The way she breathed with the music.
The way her fear eased.
The way her presence softened the room.
And he realized
he was playing not for himself,
not for the dead,
not for the war.
He was playing for her.
When the note faded, Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly.
"Your music…" she whispered, "it doesn't break. Even when everything else does."
He swallowed. "It shouldn't be possible with one string."
"Then maybe it's not the string," she murmured.
Their eyes held.
Soft.
Lingering.
Too long.
Before either could speak again, something cracked above them.
A distant explosion
no, not an explosion
A flare.
Lighting up the sky.
Elizabeth stood. "It's a signal."
Lucas nodded grimly. "It means troops are sweeping the district."
"Then we have to move before dawn."
Lucas slung the violin on his back. "We'll take Ana and her father. Move quietly, stay in shadows."
Elizabeth reached for the candle, hesitated, then blew it out.
Darkness fell once more.
But Lucas could still see the light on her face
not from the flame,
but from something inside her.
Something unbroken.
And as they prepared to climb the stairs, Lucas realized:
Her voice hadn't broken today.
Her faith hadn't broken.
Her courage hadn't broken.
But something in him had cracked open—
letting in a light he didn't know he had been starving for.