Eighty-six nights.

He leaves at dawn, twenty-four hours after he came, but not before taking my fingers and tracing them along the apple tree tattoo partially inked onto his right forearm. The roots bind his wrist, the trunk follows his veins, and the apples dot his skin like blood. I refuse to cling, but tears fall from my eyes and I scrape them away.

There are tears in his eyes, too. “Only three months,” he says casually, as if it’s nothing.

“Only three months,” I repeat, hating to be reduced to this.

He nods, those full, soft lips of his forced into a smile. He drops my hand to walk to the gate. “Dream of me,” he says, as if it’s a promise that he’ll make it happen.

Sorrow worms its way through my bones, and also a bright desire to return that impossible pledge.

Soren touches his chest, just over his heart, before finally turning to go.