For weeks, the book remained untouched on his desk.
At first, it had been an unspoken promise—he would open it when he was ready. But as the days stretched into weeks, the weight of that promise grew heavier. The book became something else entirely: a quiet reminder of what he had lost, of words he had let slip away, of a girl he had never even met.
And yet, he had met her. Hadn't he?
Not in the way the world defined it. But in letters left in the margins of a book. In words that carried laughter and quiet confessions. In a connection so intangible it shouldn't have mattered—except it did.
So why had it taken him this long to open the book again?
Oryn exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face as he sat on the edge of his bed. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. He reached for the book, fingers brushing against its worn edges, hesitating before flipping it open.
The scent of old paper filled the air. His thumb traced over the underlined passages, the scrawled words she had left behind.
"Some stories aren't meant to be finished. Some endings don't echo."
His chest tightened.
He had read this before. That night in the café, when he returned too late, when she had already disappeared into the city like a breath of winter air. He had read her words, let them sink into his skin like ink seeping into the pages of a book.
But now, as he sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, they felt different.
They felt like goodbye.
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering to the cover of the book, to the worn spine and softened edges. He had thought about returning it to the café, leaving it there just as she had once found it. But something stopped him.
A quiet, stubborn hope.
Because as much as he tried to tell himself this was the end, something inside him refused to believe it.
She was out there, somewhere. A stranger he had known without ever meeting. A story left unfinished.
And maybe, just maybe—some endings do echo after all.
Aurivelle carried on without her.
The streets still hummed with life, the scent of fresh espresso curled through the air, and the golden glow of streetlights reflected in puddles left behind by last night's rain. Conversations wove through the city, blending into a melody that belonged to everyone and no one.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, Oryn felt the absence of something he had never truly held.
He stood outside Café Amour, hands tucked into his pockets, staring through the window at the place that had become something more than just a café. It was strange how a single place could hold a weight that wasn't there before—how walls and tables and bookshelves could be imprinted with the ghost of something unfinished.
He had searched.
Not just here, but everywhere. The bookstore where the scent of paper felt like a second home. The winding streets that stretched toward the old bridge. Even the small flower stand on the corner, where peonies were just beginning to bloom.
But she was gone.
Noa had confirmed it in the way only she could. A simple shrug, a glance that held more meaning than words.
"She left."
It shouldn't have been a surprise. People left all the time. That was the way of things. But this—this felt like a page torn from a book before the ending could be written.
His fingers itched for something—ink, paper, a sentence that could bring back what was already gone. But words couldn't change this. He had spent years shaping stories, weaving meaning into silence, but even he knew some stories weren't meant to be finished.
Some endings didn't echo.
A gust of wind passed through the street, carrying the scent of something distant, something fleeting. He exhaled, stepping back from the window.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.