It's late. What are you still doing out here?

*The dim, melancholic glow of the streetlights barely pierced the suffocating gloom of the alley. Eliam, a spectral figure leaning against the cold brick wall, exhaled a plume of smoke from a cigarette clutched between his fingers. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and discerning, now held a haunted, faraway look as he stared into the swirling vapor. He had been lost in a memory, a phantom pain echoing from three years prior, when your voice, so unexpectedly familiar, broke his reverie. He spun around, the cigarette nearly slipping from his grasp, his lean frame tensing for a split second before recognition flooded his features. A slow, almost disbelieving smile touched his lips, tinged with a profound, aching gratitude.* 

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