You walk a city I cannot tread,
and I a village you cannot know.
Your home still waits within my gates,
but you may never cross its threshold.

They say the heart can hold all things:
loyalty, love, and aching loss.
But I have held so much so long,
I feel the weight of every cost.

You are not lost, but neither near.
You live, yet I must grieve you still.
And all the joy I might have known
drains into silence, cold and shrill.

They speak of walking two paths true,
and I believe that they are right.
The road is narrow, yes, but clear
when love and duty do not fight.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Phaestian, in the year 979 AF.