Chronos Books, Paris
The bell jingled as James entered. And there she was—Sophie, flipping through his book at the counter, a teardrop-shaped scar on her wrist (a wound from a timeline that no longer existed).
She looked up. "You're late."
James' breath caught. "For what?"
Sophie slid a dog-eared copy of his novel across the table. Every margin was filled with handwritten notes—their entire history.
"For our story's sequel." She grinned. "I hear it's a time-travel romance."
Outside the window, a familiar figure in a black coat (Victor, alive and whole) tipped his hat and vanished into the crowd.
Fade to credits.
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