warmth (sunny & basil)

epilogue, three years later

It's been three years since Sunny left Faraway Town.

Two years since Basil did too.

A year after watching Sunny disappear down the sidewalk with a kiss to his cheek and a promise to return, Basil boarded his own train. He didn't leave because of the silence. Or the ache. Or the way the house felt too empty when Sunny wasn't there to fill it.

He left because, for once, he wanted to go toward something.

Photography.

It was a quiet passion — a desire to capture stillness, to preserve feelings that couldn't always be said out loud. To freeze the moments that felt too warm to lose — the way the light hit Sunny's hair through the trees, the way laughter sat on Kel's face.

And when he stepped onto that train with his suitcase and sunflower charm and a heart still sore from goodbyes, he made himself a quiet promise: that he would not only learn to see the world through a lens... but also learn to see himself without looking away.

Healing didn't happen all at once.

It was not a bright flash of clarity. Not a sudden wave of peace.... it was slower than that — softer.

Some days, Basil felt like he'd taken ten steps forward. Others, it felt like he'd fallen backward into the same dark places he thought he'd outgrown.

But it never lasted as long as it used to. And he always got back up.

He still had days where he avoided mirrors. Still had nights where the quiet felt too loud. But now, there were things in his life he could look forward to — like developing photos in the darkroom, or having Sunny on the phone at 2 AM, voice groggy, saying, "Can I hear you talk for a bit? I can't sleep."

They tried to see each other as often as they could.

Once every few months, usually. Sometimes Sunny would show up with a bag of groceries and a new recipe he wanted to try. Their calls made up the in-betweens. Hours and hours of calls. Falling asleep to each other's voices.

Basil looked out the bus window. The ride had been long. Two transfers, one delay, and a broken vending machine at the station that refused to give him his change. But none of that mattered.

He was almost there.

He checked the time on his phone — it was almost four. The weekend trip had been sudden, but Sunny didn't complain. He never did. Basil called him two nights ago — "I got three free days. Can I visit?" — and Sunny replied, "Love, you don't need to ask."

It made Basil smile.

His fingers tapped the edge of his camera case. It sat safely on his lap, the sunflower charm still hanging from the zipper. It had gotten a little faded, and the petals were fraying at the edges, but he never replaced it. Kel had stitched it on as a joke months before he left Faraway Town. Basil kept it because... he liked things that stayed.

***

The bus rolled into the station.

Basil stood, careful not to jostle his things, and stepped down.

And there he was.

Sunny, waiting by the bench.

He wore a jacket this time. His hair had grown out just slightly, the bangs framing his face like they used to when they were younger. His expression was unreadable at first — the same way it always was. Basil didn't realise how much he missed it until now.

Sunny noticed him.

For a second, he didn't move.

Then he lifted one hand, slow and awkward.