Julian turns away, the conversation settling in the quiet hum of the office. He reaches for the teapot, lifting it with a steady hand, and pours the bright green matcha into the waiting cup. Steam curls upward, delicate and slow, carrying the faint, earthy fragrance between them.
Julian turns, the soft steam from the cup curling in the space between them. He crosses the room at an unhurried pace, the faint rustle of his steps muted by the thick carpet.
"Harry," he says, extending the cup toward him, "I'm not that unique fashion brand entrepreneur. I was just… at the right place, at the right time, when I made my first brand."
The porcelain is warm against Harry's hands as he accepts it, the pale green surface rippling slightly.
Julian moves away, returning to his desk with measured steps. He lowers himself into the chair, posture composed, his fingers brushing the edge of a notebook before settling on the armrest.
Harry tilts his head, a playful glint in his eye. His mouth curves into a joking smile, the kind that dances somewhere between teasing and testing.
"You're being humble. I just wanted some tips from you. Can you share a few?" Harry leans forward, eyes sharp with curiosity.
Julian blinks, caught off guard by the request. He hadn't expected something so earnest from Harry. After a pause, he exhales softly.
"All right," he says at last. "The only tip I can give you is to show the authenticity you're putting into this brand. Deliver the message you're trying to spread through your clothing line. That's all I can say."
Harry studies him, then nods—slowly, almost pensively.
"It's the same thing I've heard from others a million times… but coming from you, it sounds more credible. Your career proves it."
A faint chuckle escapes Julian.
Harry smirks, then adds casually, "You know, I can really see why Grace likes you."
The words drop between them like a stone into still water. The air shifts. Both men lapse into silence.
Harry clears his throat quickly, waving a hand as if to erase his own words.
"Never mind. I didn't mean to mention Grace—especially since she's still…" His voice trails off, the unfinished thought lingering in the quiet.
Julian's gaze lowers to the coffee mug in his hands. The coffee is cold now. He rubs the rim with his thumb, slow and absent. A faint, almost unreadable smile curves his lips.
"Well…" he says quietly, "Grace has awoken."
Harry's eyes widen instantly. Julian can almost feel the jolt run through him.
"She's awake?" Harry repeats, the words tumbling out, raw with surprise and disbelief.
And then it hits him.
She's awake… and she didn't contact me?
The thought flashes across his face before he can hide it. Disappointment settles in, heavy and visible.
Reading the flicker of disappointment in Harry's expression, Julian speaks softly, almost as if careful not to startle the moment.
"I only found out today," he says. His voice falters, the next words heavy in his throat. "She's…" He hesitates, his gaze dipping. "From what I can tell… it's like she's lost her memories."
Harry's brows knit in confusion, then his eyes widen, trembling as he reads the gravity on Julian's face.
"How… how did that happen?" he murmurs, the words barely above a whisper, shock roughening the edges of his voice. "How do you even know? If she lost her memories, then she couldn't have contacted you."
Julian's fingers tighten around his mug.
"I saw her on campus earlier. She looked right at me—yet… there was nothing. No recognition." His voice is low, steady, but his eyes betray the ache beneath. "I think she's searching for pieces of herself. That's why she's wandering around the campus."
Harry leans back slightly, slowly nodding as the truth settles in.
"This is the last thing I expected from her…" he says in a hushed tone. "But… okay. It's still a relief that she woke up." He pauses, studying Julian's face with quiet caution. "Are you… okay, then, Professor Lenter?"
Julian hesitates, as if weighing the honesty of his answer. Then he forces a faint, brittle smile.
"Well… I guess she needs time."
Harry rises from his chair, the mug still in his hands.
"I guess it wasn't the best timing for me to come ask about starting my brand," he says, walking toward the door. "You must be going through a lot right now."
Julian stands as well, falling into step beside him.
At the doorway, Harry reaches for the handle, but Julian pulls it open first.
"You can always come back if you need more advice," Julian offers gently.
"Thanks." Harry turns, meeting his eyes. "Why don't you just tell Grace your relationship?"
Julian freezes for a moment. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
"I want to wait for her to remember," he says quietly. His gaze drifts, voice lowering. "I don't want to…" He stops, the unfinished thought lingering in the space between them, as heavy as the silence that follows.
I don't want to provoke her… not if it means forcing her to remember the things that could hurt her—the things from her past.
The words rise to Julian's lips, but he swallows them back, letting the silence hold them instead.
Harry nods slightly, as if sensing the unspoken thought.
"Right. You've got a point. I'll wait for her to remember me too—since I'm her good friend. You know…" He pauses, his voice dipping with a quiet sincerity. "I really care about Grace. A lot. As a friend."
Julian listens, unsure where this is leading.
"Yeah, I can tell," he says gently, his eyes steady on Harry's.
Standing in the hallway, framed by the open door, Harry's gaze sharpens.
"And because I care about her, I care about her feelings toward you, too." His words are slow, deliberate. "She likes you. A lot, Professor Lenter."
Julian's heart stirs—steady, insistent, like a drumbeat he doesn't want to stop.
"She will remember you." Harry offers the words like a quiet promise, then turns away, footsteps echoing down the hall.
Julian watches as the door eases shut behind him, the click soft but final. He remains there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the closed door.
She will remember you.
Harry's last words echo in his mind, each repetition sinking deeper, as if trying to carve hope into the spaces doubt had already claimed.
Night drapes the park in deep shadows, the pale glow of streetlamps pooling on the frosted path. The wind cuts through the silence, curling around Grace in sharp, restless swirls. She pulls her padded jacket tighter, the zipper brushing her chin, and feels the icy gust push her hair back from her face.
"Julian Lenter…"
The name escapes her lips in a breath of white vapor, vanishing into the night as her boots crunch lightly over the gravel.
Even in the chill, the park lives—runners pound past with rhythmic breaths, their shoes slapping against the track. Grace keeps to the side path, walking briskly, thoughts pacing even faster.
Why did he pay for my tuition…? Did we personally know each other…?
The questions turn over and over in her mind, stubborn and unanswered.
Her thoughts slide back to earlier that evening—her mother's face under the bathroom light, steam curling from warm water.
"Mom," Grace had said, leaning against the doorway, watching her mother rinse her face. "Do you know who Julian Lenter is? He paid for my tuition. Professor Julian Lenter?"
Her mother's hands had paused mid-motion, water dripping from her fingers, before she resumed slowly. "Well… I know. He paid for your tuition."
Grace had frowned.
"And were we close? I mean… I checked. He's not in my faculty. He's in Arts and Design."
Her mother's eyes had gone distant, her expression tightening with quiet thought.
"I don't know much more. Honey, give yourself time to recall. You don't need to rush."
And that was all. No further words, no explanation—only the heavy silence that Grace could read as caution.
She knows her mother is careful, almost deliberate, not to disturb the fragile ground of her mind. The coma still lingers in her bones, a shadow of the months she lost. Grace understands the restraint. She doesn't want to push herself to remember things that might hurt.
And yet something about Julian Lenter feels different.
The name hums in her mind like a faint melody she almost recognizes. Too familiar. Too close.
The winter air bites at her cheeks as she lifts her gaze to the sky. Above, the night stretches wide and silent, a scatter of stars cold against the black. Her breath rises to meet them, then fades—just like his name on her lips.
"There aren't many stars up there…" Grace murmurs, her eyes sweeping the dark expanse.
Only a few faint points glimmer through the winter haze, scattered and dim. She tilts her head, as if a different angle might reveal more.
Why does it feel like I've seen so many before?
She can almost feel the cool weight of that night, the endless vault of sky above her, stars spilling across it in uncountable numbers.