Albert's carriage moved slowly—deliberately slowed, because he had no reason to hurry. Or perhaps because he still wasn't ready to reach home.
The first three days were spent reading.
The book—Rashid had given it to him before the caravan parted ways at the crossroads leading north—wasn't thick, its brown leather cover worn. Inside, neat handwriting in black ink, faded in some places.
This wasn't a holy book in the conventional sense Albert knew. No commandments, no prohibitions. Just stories. Stories about a prophet who walked in the desert for forty days, speaking to the moon, asking why humans were created, why there had to be suffering.
Albert read it over and over. Not because he was drawn to the religion itself—he was still too skeptical for that. But there was something within that kept pulling him back.
About burdens. About how each person carries their own sins, and no one can carry them for another. About how suffering isn't punishment, but a trial—and what's tested isn't patience, but honesty with oneself.
Albert read that passage three times. Then he closed the book, set it in his lap, and gazed out the carriage window.
"You're reading that thing again," Alena said from across the carriage. She was embroidering—something Albert hadn't seen her do since childhood.
"You don't like it?"
"I didn't say I didn't like it." Alena pushed her needle through the fabric, pulling red thread through a small hole. "But you've been reading it repeatedly since we left. Is there something you're searching for?"
Albert didn't answer. He just opened the book again, to a different page.
"And the people asked the prophet: does God hear our prayers? The prophet answered: God hears. But prayer is not about changing destiny. Prayer is about changing yourself, so that when destiny arrives, you are not destroyed by it."
Albert read that passage. Then he closed the book again.
Outside, rain began to fall. Light droplets on the carriage window, blurring the view outside like an unfinished painting.
"Perhaps I'm searching for answers," he finally said.
"Answers to what?"
"To questions I don't even know."
Alena looked at him. Then she set aside her embroidery, reaching for Albert's hand. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what you're looking for."
"I don't know either."
They sat in silence. The carriage swayed gently, wheels clattering over the cobblestone road. Outside, Luise rode beside the carriage, her cloak soaked and clinging to her body, black hair wet, yet her posture remained straight.
Albert looked at her for a moment. Then he tapped the carriage wall, opening the window. "Luise, get in here. You'll get sick."
Luise turned. Her face was wet with rain, but her expression was flat as usual. "I'm fine, My Lord."
"That's an order."
She hesitated a moment, then dismounted. A servant riding behind took the reins of her warhorse. Luise climbed into the carriage, sitting by the door, trying to keep her distance even though the cramped space made it nearly impossible.
"You're soaked," Alena said. She took a cloth from her luggage, offering it to Luise. "Dry your hair."
Luise stared at the cloth for a moment, then accepted it. "Thank you, My Lady."
The three of them sat in the cramped carriage. Alena across from Albert. Luise by the door, still trying to maintain distance even though her shoulder nearly touched Albert's.
Albert opened his book again. But he didn't read. He just held it, feeling the rough leather cover beneath his fingers.
"Tell me about that thing," Alena said suddenly.
Albert looked up. "What?"
"That book. I'm curious about what's inside it too."
Albert looked at the book in his hands. "Stories about a prophet who walked in the desert."
"And?"
"And... many things. About God, about humanity, about why we're here."
Alena frowned. "Do you believe it?"
"I don't know. But..." He paused, searching for the right words. "But there are parts that make me feel less alone."
Luise, who had been silent, turned. "Less alone?"
Albert looked at her. Those violet eyes—usually wary, usually keeping their distance—were now wide open. Perhaps because she was soaked and couldn't hide her expression as well as usual. Perhaps for some other reason.
"On the battlefield," Albert said, "I often wondered, what any of it meant. Why people had to die. Why I survived. Whether there was any purpose behind any of it." He held the book. "This book doesn't answer those questions. But it says... it's okay not to know."
Alena and Luise looked at him. The carriage swayed. The rain outside began to ease.
"Though you're still the same, you've also changed in some ways," Alena finally said.
"Changed into what?"
"I don't know. I just hope it's not for the worse."
Albert didn't answer. He just opened the book again, to a page he already knew by heart.
***
The following days, a routine formed within the carriage.
Mornings, Albert read the book under Alena's watchful eye as she embroidered or read another book. Afternoons, he stepped down from the carriage, walking beside Luise as she led her horse. Evenings, the three of them ate together at small inns along the road.
But something was different. Or perhaps not different—just unusual.
One afternoon, Albert walked beside Luise. They'd been walking for an hour, leaving the carriage behind. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still wet, puddles reflecting the clearing sky.
"You haven't been talking much lately," Luise said.
"Neither have you."
"I never talk much."
"That's true."
They walked in silence. Their footprints left marks in the damp earth. Ahead, the road curved, disappearing behind a small hill overgrown with thorny bushes.
"That book," Luise said suddenly. "Do you believe what's written in it?"
Albert looked at her. "Why do you ask?"
Luise walked a few steps without answering. Then, "I once heard my grandfather talk about God. He said God is like the wind. You can't see it, but you can feel it when it passes." She stopped. "I never understood what he meant."
"And now?"
Luise didn't answer. She just walked, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Perhaps you could teach me," she finally said.
Albert raised an eyebrow. "Me? I don't even know what I believe myself."
"But you read that book every day. That means there's something in it that keeps pulling you back."
Albert didn't answer. He just walked, feeling the wet mud beneath his boots, the evening wind beginning to cool.
"Tonight," he said. "If you want, we can read it together."
Luise nodded. "Alright."
That night, after dinner at a small roadside inn, the three of them sat in Albert's room. Luise in the chair near the door, Alena on the bed, Albert at the small table with the book open before him.
A candle burned, their shadows dancing on the cracked wooden walls.
"What are you reading today?" Alena asked.
Albert turned the page. "About a wanderer who lost everything."
He began to read.
"And the wanderer said to the prophet: I have lost my son, my wife, my wealth, and now my house has burned. What remains for me? The prophet answered: yourself. The wanderer said: my self is already destroyed. The prophet answered: then rebuild. From the ruins, from the ashes, from memory. For God did not create humanity to be rubble, but to be a structure."
Albert stopped. He stared at the page, reading it again in his mind. Beside him, Alena gripped his hand. Near the door, Luise leaned forward, her face half-hidden in shadow.
"Continue," Alena whispered.
Albert read again. And again. Until the candle was nearly spent, until his voice grew hoarse, until outside, night birds began their calls.
When he closed the book, Alena was already asleep, her head resting on Albert's shoulder. Luise still sat in her chair, eyes open, staring out the window toward the low-hanging moon.
"Luise."
She turned. "Yes?"
"You're not sleeping?"
"I'll keep watch. You sleep first."
Albert wanted to say something. But the words wouldn't come. He just nodded, letting Alena lean against his shoulder, closing his eyes.
In the corner of the room, Luise watched them. Then she turned toward the window, toward the moon, toward the silent night.
***
The days passed quickly. Now, Götthain territory began to appear.
From the final hilltop, Albert looked down at the valley below. The wooden rooftops he'd known since childhood. Fields beginning to yellow. The small river that meandered between the trees. And on the hill across, Götthain Castle stood with its solid grey stone walls.
He couldn't remember when he'd last seen this view. Over three years ago, when he'd departed as a fifteen-year-old youth with a hundred soldiers behind him. Now he returned as a Baron, with a medal on his chest, wounds on his body, and a mind that never truly healed.
Beside him, Luise exhaled softly. "We're here."
"Yes."
Alena stepped out of the carriage, standing beside Albert. Her eyes swept across the valley below.
They descended the hill. The carriage swayed gently. The soldiers behind began to whistle—old songs Albert remembered from before the war.
At the castle gate, Baron Friedrich and Lady Elara were already waiting.
They hadn't changed. Or perhaps they had, but Albert couldn't tell from this distance. Friedrich still stood straight in his dark green cloak. Elara still wore her simple dress, her hair neatly pinned up. Beside her stood a cute little girl, about three years old.
Albert walked toward them. Each step felt heavy. Not from exhaustion, but from something else. Something that tightened his chest, dried his throat, stung his eyes.
He stopped before them.
"Father. Mother."
Friedrich looked at him. His eyes—green, like Albert's—moved quickly, assessing. He saw the scar at Albert's temple, the slight tilt in how Albert stood from his still-healing shoulder, the dark circles beneath his eyes that nothing could hide.
"You look thin," Friedrich said.
"I've been eating plenty."
"Don't lie, son."
Albert almost smiled. But his smile turned into something else as Elara stepped forward, cupping his face in both hands.
"Mother—"
"Don't speak." Her voice trembled. Her eyes were wet. "Let me look at you."
She held Albert's face, turning it slowly left and right. Her eyes traced every scar, every line of exhaustion etched into her son's face.
"You're home," she whispered.
"Yes, Mother. I'm home."
Elara embraced him. A tight embrace, a long embrace, one that made Albert realize that for three years, he hadn't been the only one who had been losing something.
Behind them, Friedrich shook Alena's hand. "Welcome to Götthain, Lady Alena. Apologies if the welcome isn't grand enough."
Alena smiled. "It's enough, My Lord. More than enough."
Then she turned, looking at Luise, who stood a little distance away, holding her horse's reins, staring at the castle with an expression hard to read.
"You're Gregor's granddaughter, aren't you?" Friedrich asked.
Luise nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
"Your grandfather has been waiting for you in the back. Go. He must miss you."
Luise glanced at Albert briefly. Albert nodded. She bowed to Friedrich and Elara, then walked quickly toward the training grounds behind the castle.
Friedrich watched her go. "A strong girl," he said.
"Yes," Albert said. "She saved me many times."
Friedrich looked at his son. In those old eyes, unspoken questions lingered. But he didn't ask. He just nodded.
"Come inside," he said. "We'll have dinner. Later, you can tell us everything."
They entered the castle. At the gate, Albert paused briefly, looking back toward the training grounds where Luise had disappeared. Then he turned, following his parents inside.