Tell me how to love you

Mark followed without a word.

The man in black walked with the smooth, economical stride of someone who'd seen war--or worse--and carried it like a second skin. He was older, maybe late forties, but there was a weight in his posture that made him seem timeless. Mark matched his pace, jaw tight, every sense sharpened. His boots echoed down the hallway again, but now the sound felt different. More final.

They didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

The house was old. It didn't creak so much as breathe--air whispering through cracks, wood moaning beneath the weight of memory. The walls were lined with faded portraits: unsmiling faces, some in military dress, others in black, as if this place had only ever known mourning or command.

Down another corridor. Then a turn. Then stairs--narrow, made of slate, and leading down into the bones of the house. With each step, the temperature dropped. The scent changed too: less polish, more stone and oil and something older, deeper. It smelled like secrets.

Mark tried to keep his breathing steady. He wasn't afraid, not exactly. But he was alert--tuned in the way he'd been back in firefights, waiting for the first crack of a rifle. The house didn't feel hostile. But it didn't welcome him, either.

When they reached the bottom, the man stopped before a heavy door bound in iron. He drew a key from his coat, ancient and heavy, and turned it with a slow, deliberate motion. The lock clicked like a throat being cleared. He pushed the door open and gestured Mark in.

The room wasn't what Mark expected.

No dungeon. No steel. No cliché.

It was a workshop.

Or something like one.

The walls were concrete, but the lighting was warm. Soft, golden--designed to make you forget the cold. A hearth in one corner crackled gently, its flames throwing long shadows across the floor. Tools hung neatly on one wall: old tools, artisan tools. Not weapons. Chisels, blades, brushes, things made for hands and patience. Not a speck of dust touched them.

In the center of the room stood a table with a single object on it.

A small wooden box.

The man closed the door behind them.

"Open it," he said.

His voice was low, almost gentle. But there was no mistaking the command in it.

Mark stepped forward, cautiously. The box was hand-carved, mahogany maybe, with intricate patterns etched along the edges--swirls, spirals, and knots that hinted at something just beyond comprehension. At the center, a symbol: not quite a star, not quite a cross. He didn't recognize it, but it made his stomach tense.

He hesitated, then lifted the lid.

Inside: a gun.

Old. Beautiful. A revolver, polished to a gleam, resting on black velvet like a crown jewel. Next to it, a single bullet. Its casing was engraved, though Mark couldn't make out the pattern from this angle.

He looked up sharply. "What is this?"

The man's face was unreadable. "A question."

Mark stared at the weapon. His stomach turned, but he didn't let it show.

"What kind of question?"

"One that reveals who you are."

Mark didn't reach for the gun. Didn't move at all.

"This isn't about killing someone," he said. Not a guess--an instinct.

The man's eyes flicked, just barely. "No. It's about willingness."

"To do what?"

"To belong."

The words dropped like stones in a well. Mark said nothing, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was the fire's soft crackle, like it was listening too.

His eyes dropped to the revolver again. The reflection staring back from the steel was his own--pale, tight-jawed, a man caught between instinct and reason.

"I'm not here to belong," he said finally. "I'm here because I love Emma."

The man gave nothing in return. He might not have even blinked.

Mark looked back at the box. "She knows about this?"

"She knows more than you think," the man said. "More than you think you know about her."

A beat passed. The tension in the air thickened.

Mark didn't flinch. "If you're trying to scare me off, it won't work."

"I'm not. I'm trying to see if you understand what you're walking into."

Mark's fists clenched at his sides. "I don't need some test with a gun to prove I love her."

The man stepped closer. "That's not what this is."

Mark met his gaze. "Then tell me."

The older man didn't look away. "If I tell you... you'll carry the weight of it. Forever. There's no unknowing. No going back."

Mark hesitated. He thought of Emma--how her voice had a way of quieting the world, how her smile undid knots in his chest he didn't know were there. He thought of her laugh, the one she saved for moments when she forgot to guard herself.

He thought of her eyes the night she told him, "You don't know what you're asking for."

But he did. He had to.

"I'm not afraid of weight," Mark said.

The man studied him a moment longer. Then he stepped forward and closed the box gently.

"You're not ready."

Mark's voice dropped an octave. "I don't need your permission to love her."

"No," the man said. "But you might need it to keep her."

The words hit harder than expected.

Mark didn't respond.

He didn't trust what might come out if he did.

Then--

"She's waiting," the man said.

Mark blinked. "What?"

"She came early this morning. She's in the garden."

Something shifted in Mark's chest. Relief, sharp and fast--but tangled with confusion. He followed the man back up the stairs, every step ringing with unanswered questions.

At the top, the hallway looked different now. The shadows weren't deeper, but they felt that way. The portraits on the wall seemed to watch him more closely.

Outside, the day had brightened into a cold, clean morning. The hedges no longer looked like soldiers--they looked like walls. Not threatening. But not inviting either.

And in the garden beyond them--under a tree with white blossoms just beginning to open--stood Emma.

Arms folded. Wind in her hair. Eyes locked on him.

She didn't smile.

Didn't run.

But she didn't look away, either.

Mark stepped out into the light, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The garden was large, symmetrical in a way that felt ritualistic--rows of trimmed bushes, stone paths leading to nowhere, a fountain that no longer ran. Nature, tamed until it lost its wildness.

Emma stood at the center of it all, like the only real thing.

Mark approached her slowly.

When he stopped a few feet away, he saw it--just behind her eyes. The thing she'd never said. The reason for all the silences. The weight she carried.

"I saw the box," he said.

Emma didn't react. "Did you open it?"

"Yes."

"Did you take the gun?"

"No."

Her gaze searched his face. "Did he tell you?"

"No," Mark said. "He said I wasn't ready."

Emma was quiet for a long moment. Then she looked away, up at the blossoms overhead.

"They only bloom for a week," she said. "Every year. Seven days, then they fall. My mother used to say they reminded her of choices. Once made, they bloom. Then time decides what falls away."

Mark looked at her carefully. "I'm not going anywhere, Emma."

She looked at him again. "You think love is enough?"

He didn't answer right away.

"I think knowing someone is," he said. "And I want to know everything--even if it terrifies me."

Emma's eyes softened, but her voice remained steady. "Then you'll need to go back."

"To the box?"

"No," she said. "To him."

Mark felt something in his gut tighten. "Why?"

"Because the question wasn't his," she said. "It was mine."

He stared at her. "You set this up?"

"I needed to know what part of you would walk away," she said. "Or what part would stay, even when nothing made sense."

Mark was quiet. The morning wind shifted, carrying the scent of blossoms, smoke, and something darker from below the house.

He stepped forward.

Took her hand.

"I stayed," he said.

Emma didn't smile.

But her fingers curled around his.

And in the quiet between them, something settled. Not an answer. Not yet.

But maybe the beginning of one.

--