Later that morning, the sun shone warm and bright over Solmyra as Lily rode her horse, Merry, down the road from their hilltop home. Merry's hooves beat softly against the dry path, little clouds of dust rising behind them. In the distance, the city was already alive. Voices rose over the noise of carts and hooves, blacksmith hammers rang, and laughter spilled from open doors.
It took about fifteen minutes to ride down. Not too near, not too far, just enough to remind her that the hill was hers, but the city belonged to everyone.
As she neared, Lily straightened in the saddle, her eyes sharp as she studied the streets.
New stone houses stood where old wooden shacks once leaned, their tiled roofs catching the sun. Rebuilt shops she barely remembered stood stronger and better cared for. Empty lots where weeds once grew now held bakeries, smithies, and cloth stalls with painted signs swaying in the breeze. The Solmyra of her childhood had been quiet, almost sleepy, now it pulsed with purpose.
She slowed Merry to a walk, taking it all in without speaking.
Then, from one of the houses, a woman stepped outside.
She wore white linen clothing, sunlight softening her fine features. Graceful and almost out of place on the dust. Lily stared at herself for a second: scarred hands, worn boots, and shoulders toughened by years of sword work. She didn't feel shame, but the thought slipped in anyway: what would it have been like to grow up soft?
Then the woman smiled. "Good day to you!"
Lily didn't expect the greeting, but she gave a small nod. "Ah... and to you."
The woman's eyes moved to Merry as she stepped closer. "What a beautiful horse," she said, full of delight. "Such a warm cinnamon coat, with a black mane and socks—like she stepped out of a storybook."
Lily was somewhat surprised by the compliment. Most people just call Merry sturdy. "She's loyal," she noted, patting the mare's neck. "Carries me wherever I need to go."
"And you ride as if you were born in the saddle," the woman added warmly. "Unlike me, I slip around like a sack of potatoes," laughing at herself.
Lily flushed slightly. The delicate woman she had thought elegant was admiring her. "Thank you. And thank you for noticing, Merry. She's a good one."
The woman chuckled lightly. "I'm Jane. I work at the healer's hall, just down the lane over there." gestured past a bakery and a narrow herb shop.
"Lily." She glanced at the linen. "A nurse? Makes sense with the white clothing."
"Yes, though it's a struggle keeping it clean most days. Are you from here?"
"I was. Long ago. My mother worked in the castle's kitchens. I remember the healer, Dr. Elias Hart. He tended the highborn."
Jane's face lit up. "Dr. Hart still serves! He runs the healers' hall now. Well-respected."
Warmth stirred in Lily's chest. She hadn't thought of him for years. "He still works?" she asked. "That pleases me. I think... I'll visit him."
"Come then. I'll show you the way."
They walked together. Not long after, the healer's hall came into view. It stood at the city's edge, where fields met the wood. Built of pale stone and dark beams, it was sturdy but welcoming. A carved sign of a staff and serpent swung above the door. Bundles of herbs dangled from the eaves, carrying a sharp, earthy scent.
Lily dismounted, tying Merry beneath a shady post. The mare dipped her head to the grass.
Inside, the air was cool and tranquil. Sunlight fell across shelves of glass jars and folded linens. Voices murmured, calm but urgent. Jane led her to a brass-plated door.
She knocked. "Doctor? There's someone here to see you."
"Come in," came the reply.
Lily stepped inside. A man behind a desk looked up from his papers. His hair was all white now, his face lined but his eyes held the same gentle calm she remembered.
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He studied her. "You... seem familiar, but I can't place you."
"It's Lily, the servant's daughter. From the castle."
His eyes widened and he stood, a smile spreading as he recognized her. "Lily? By the gods, I'd never have guessed. Such a small thing back then. Always sneaking near the guard posts!" He laughed. "But look at you now, strong, sure... all grown."
"Thank you, Doctor, and thank you... for the kindness you showed my mother and me back then. I still remember it."
He waved a hand. "Think nothing of it. You were a stubborn one even then—hard to keep in bed. Your poor mother could hardly keep up with you. What brings you back?"
Lily looked down at her calloused hands. "My mother. She passed. I got word by letter."
His smile faded. He stepped around the desk and motioned for her to sit. "I'm sorry. Truly. She was quiet but strong. Always spoke of you with pride."
Lily looked away, blinking rapidly as she steadied her breath.
"She missed you," he went on. "She didn't say it often, but I saw it. After Samuel took you in, sadness never quite left her. But she believed in you. Said you were meant for more than a servant's life."
Lily swallowed hard. "I was angry for a long time. Though she gave me away. But now... now I understand. She wanted better for me."
He nodded. "Yes. Near the end, she refused medicine. Said the stars had spoken, that she was ready and didn't want to trouble anyone."
Lily offered a grateful expression. "Thank you, Doctor. For standing by her."
He set a hand on her shoulder. "It was an honor."
They spoke for a while longer, with Lily sharing pieces of her travels and leaving out the darkest parts. He talked about the town, the healer's work, and her mother. His words were kind, easing the weight in Lily's chest.
At last, she rose.
"Come again, the door is always open." He stood to accompany her out.
"I will," she promised.
Outside, Jane waited with a gentle smile. Lily mirrored the expression and then mounted Merry once more.
As she rode back, the city no longer seemed foreign. The houses were no longer strange.
Lily let Merry walk slowly through the center of the city, her eyes taking in every detail. She passed a bakery she didn't remember, the smell of warm bread and honey making her stop for a moment. On a whim, she bought a sticky bun, soft and sweet in her hands, and ate it as she rode. It tasted of childhood and something new all at once.
Next, she paused at a leather shop tucked between two stalls. Belts, boots, and bags hung neatly on wooden hooks. She ran her fingers over a thick belt, smiling.
It was perfect for Samuel. It felt strange how easy it was to spend silver now. Maybe it was because, for the first time in years, she wasn't running.
By then, the crowd had thinned. Merchants folded cloth, counted coins, and called out last deals. Smoke curled from cookfires. Someone shouted about fish, and another sold dried meats. Baskets brimmed with onions, turnips, and beans.
But it was the fruit stalls at the far end that made her stop.
That was where the memories lived.
The smell. Sun-warmed citrus, crushed figs, ripe peaches, rose like a ghost.
She tied Merry at the square's edge, where cobblestone turned to packed dirt. Children darted past, their laughter sharp and bright. Lily stood still for a moment, caught between times.
She used to come here with her mother twice a week, without fail. Her mother always left her at the last stall, the same one, while she shopped for the castle kitchens.
Lily had hated it.
Back then, the city children mocked her. Called her a servant's brat, pushed her, and laughed. She would hide behind crates, fists clenched, fighting tears. But sometimes, just sometimes, a pale boy sat beside her. He didn't speak much. He just offered a piece of dried fruit, a sugared fig, or a wildflower picked from the road.
His name was Juliene, the son of the friendly couple who owned that fruit stall, kind in the quiet, unassuming way they were.
She, on the other hand, had not been kind. She was angry and ashamed. She had shoved his gifts away, scowled, and yelled at him. She hadn't known how to accept it when she already felt so small.
And yet, he always came back.
Now, years later, she walked through the market towards that same corner. Part of her hoped the stall would be gone. Part of her ached for it to still be there.
It was.
The fruit stall stood in its old place, weathered but cared for. The wood was darkened by sun and rain, but every crate was neatly stacked with polished fruits until it shone. The canvas overhead was patched but tidy, flapping softly in the breeze. Not flashy like the newer stalls, but dependable. Familiar.
She stepped closer. "Hello?" She called from behind the stall.
No answer.
She waited and then tried again, louder this time. Glanced left, then right. Still nothing. She turned to leave, her shoulders sagging disappointed.
But then, someone called out from her back.
"Wait!"
She turned back.
A man jogged toward the stall, a wooden crate tucked under one arm. He was a bit taller than her, slim, and pale, with cheeks pink from exertion. His dark hair had fallen onto his brows, and he brushed it back with an awkward flick.
But it was his eyes that stopped her.
Pale blue, like the clear sky.
Soft, and exactly as she remembered.
"Forgive me, miss. You've caught me at the worst time. Apples sold out early. Folks say they're the sweetest in Solmyra." He set the crate down, careful with the fruit, then straightened with a shy smile. "Still, I've got fine pears left. Plums too. Might I tempt you with either?" He brushed his hair back again, avoiding her eyes for a beat. And then his gaze lingered on her, narrowing slightly. "...Miss? Have I... do I know you?"
She stared at him.
The slim face. The shy, hesitant manner. The gentleness in his voice.
It felt like hearing a song she didn't know she missed until it played again, familiar and aching with something lost.
The boy who used to sit beside her, who never asked anything in return, who simply offered what little he had. The boy she had pushed away, again and again, but who had never left. Now here he stood. He was not a boy anymore, but a man, still gentle, still unwavering, still at the same stall.
It was him.
Juliene.
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