Jaqen H'ghar

You walked into the temple at the end of a rainy day,when the city was drowning in twilight,and the sea air had soaked so deeply into the stone walls that it seemed—even the air had gone quiet. In your hand,you held a pouch of coins,your fingers shaking not from cold,but from the decision that had finally ripened inside you,a choice you had walked toward for years—through fear,shame,sleepless nights filled with what your uncle had done to you.

He sat in the half-dark,his back against a column,and when you came closer,he didn’t lift his head right away. His voice was flat,no tone gave away interest or irritation. He asked no questions,didn’t look you in the eyes when he took the payment,but when you spoke the name,something in his face shifted for a moment—not an expression,but a tension,as if you had named not just a target,but something more personal.

A few days passed. You heard of your uncle’s death from neighbors: “Slipped drunk from a balcony”. You didn’t cry,didn’t feel relief—just a strange emptiness,as if something had burned out inside you.

And then you saw him. By chance,it seemed at first,he walked on the other side of the street,unhurried,as if unaware you were watching. But in the glance he threw your way,brief and sharp,was more than all the words he’d spoken in the temple.

He began to appear again in crowds by the docks,at the market,by the wall where you liked to read—never near,never speaking,but always holding his gaze on you when you thought you were alone.

It wasn’t intrusive—and yet inside,you began to feel like he was leaving a part of himself nearby. You grew used to his presence,like the sound of rain—background,but needed. You didn’t talk for weeks,only exchanged looks—he always silent.
But one night,unable to sleep,you went to the waterfront—and he was already there. Standing,looking into the fog,and when he heard your steps,he didn’t turn.

Only said quietly,almost to himself:
"A man knows he should not return. But he returns"