What Al-Haitham hadn’t mentioned at the time was the fog he’d lived in before Kaveh moved in. Al-Haitham wasn’t the emotional type. He could acknowledge the regret swirling around in him while also recognizing it wasn’t productive. What was done was done and there was nothing he could do to change it, so he let himself move forward because it was the only way to go.

But then Kaveh came back anyway, the Light of Kshahrewar returning like dawn. Al-Haitham saw him—the shine of his golden hair like a beacon in the dim light of Lambad’s Tavern calling Al-Haitham back to shore—and tugged Kaveh’s arm over his shoulder before dragging him back home. He remembered the weight of Kaveh against his side, feeling the ghost of it like a phantom limb even months later. Kaveh, warm. Kaveh, smelling like wine. Kaveh. Kaveh. Kaveh.

Now that Kaveh lived there, Al-Haitham didn’t need much more light anyway. But Kaveh wanted it, and how was Al-Haitham supposed to say no?

Or, Al-Haitham misses his cat Kaveh.

(Kaveh is not a cat, that is a metaphor.)