The tent was silent.

Only the sound of the wind brushing against the flaps echoed through the quiet camp. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin — heavy, unmoving, almost sacred. Luther sat with Alina in his arms, her small frame trembling as she clutched the front of his cloak. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest — faint, rapid, desperate — as though she still hoped that someone, anyone, would rise from the dead around them.

But there was no one left.

Outside, the cold wind carried the faint scent of ash and iron. The air shimmered faintly — and then, before their eyes, the people who had been lying sick on the ground began to change. One by one, their bodies loosened, the pale hue of their skin fading into motes of silver dust. The sound of the wind deepened, lifting the dust like a breath of release.

Luther tightened his grip on Alina as he watched.

They weren't dying — not anymore. They were leaving. Their pain, their corrupted bodies, the twisted forms the curse had forced upon them… all of it broke apart into glimmering dust that danced in the wind. It swirled around the camp like fireflies at dusk, and with each breath of air, it rose higher and higher, leaving only empty blankets and the scent of faded magic.

Then the wind carried it away — out of the camp, into the town.

It passed over the frozen corpses of the puppets, their blank eyes staring into nothing. As the dust touched them, the same soft glow spread across their bodies, erasing the emptiness from their faces before they too broke apart into light and vanished into the wind.

Luther stood and pulled the tent's flap aside. Alina followed silently, her small hand clutching his sleeve. Together they watched as the wind carried that glowing dust into the heart of the town.

And then, something impossible happened.

As the dust passed the ruined buildings, the world began to change.

The cracks in the walls healed; the shattered glass of the windows reformed; the blackened stone brightened into white and gold. The lifeless, hollow streets shimmered — and suddenly, they were full of people. A soft hum filled the air — laughter, chatter, the sounds of a place alive again.

A woman stepped out from one of the houses, her apron dusted with flour, and called out to a man pushing a cart. He laughed and threw a letter her way — a postman, grinning as she caught it midair.

Further down, a group of girls in bright dresses exited a shop, holding ribbons and baskets. Men boasted about jewelry they couldn't afford while their wives rolled their eyes and tugged them along. The smell of fresh bread and roasting chestnuts drifted through the air.

The town of Noia was alive again — for one fleeting, beautiful moment.

The wind carried the dust further. It brushed past an orphanage where children ran through a sunlit garden, their laughter rising like bells. A nun clapped her hands, calling them back for lunch, but they only laughed louder and kept running. Across the street, a baker lifted a steaming pie from his oven while his wife sold bread to smiling neighbors. He leaned over the counter to kiss her cheek as their children giggled from behind.

The whole town was glowing — every street filled with warmth, every home pulsing with life.

Luther's chest ached.

He stepped forward with Alina beside him, the flap of the tent falling shut behind them. The light reflected in his golden eyes as he stared at the miracle before him — the ghosts of a town reborn only for a goodbye.

A child spotted him — a little girl with chestnut curls and bright green eyes. She giggled and ran toward him barefoot, holding a small rose in her hand. Her laughter was pure, cutting through the quiet air like the first note of a song.

She stopped in front of him and held up the flower with both hands.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Luther blinked. His throat tightened. He lowered himself to one knee so he could meet her eyes. The girl reached up and pressed a kiss against his cheek — a fleeting, gentle touch — before running back to the woman who stood smiling nearby.

He stared at the rose in his hand for a long moment. The petals were soft — real — yet glowing faintly like starlight.

Then he looked up again.

The elder of the town appeared among the crowd — his familiar face no longer pale and sick, but healthy, his robes clean. Beside him stood the merchant who had once laughed like a manaic. They smiled at him, their expressions full of peace.

"Thank you, Saint Luther," the elder said, bowing deeply. "You released us from our pain."

The merchant followed, tears glimmering in his eyes. "We can finally go home."

All around them, the people of Noia — the townsfolk, the sick, the lost, the dead — bowed deeply to him. Their voices whispered together, carried by the wind.

"Thank you… thank you… thank you…"

Luther's jaw clenched. He didn't know what to say. His lips parted, but no sound came. He could only nod once, sharply, as if holding back the storm that threatened to break inside him. Alina clutched his cloak tighter, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Then — the wind came again.

It swept through the square, carrying the dust from the people's feet, dissolving them one by one. Their smiles remained until the end — and as the last of the light scattered into the sky, the laughter faded, the glow vanished, and silence fell once more.

The town of Noia was empty again.

Luther stood there motionless. The rose in his hand swayed slightly as the final breeze passed. The air was clear now — still, hollow, too clean. Only the soft crunch of his boots against the dirt broke the silence.

He looked around at the abandoned streets, now nothing but shadows of what they had been.

For a heartbeat, he could still see them — the baker smiling, the children running, the woman waving from her window — all of it painted in fading gold.

Then it was gone.

Alina wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her voice breaking as she whispered, "They're all gone, aren't they?"

Luther looked down at her. His lips trembled faintly before he forced a small smile. "No," he said quietly. "They're free."

He turned his gaze upward, watching the dust spiral toward the clouds — little fragments of light disappearing into the horizon. His fingers tightened around the rose. The thorns pricked his skin, but he didn't let go.

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