The dark winter night wraps around the lake park, the air sharp with frost. It's past ten, and the running lane is almost empty—just Julian, pounding the path in long, relentless strides. His breath clouds the air, vanishing as quickly as it forms.
The cold wind lashes against his face, threads through his hair, and cuts into his lungs with each inhale. But he keeps running. Running hard. Running as if he can outrun the ache that's been lodged in his chest since this afternoon—since Grace looked at him and didn't know his name.
His steps slow. The rhythm breaks. He comes to an abrupt halt, feet planted, chest heaving. Steam rises from his shoulders in the frigid air.
He tilts his head back. Above, the sky stretches in a vast, dark vault, broken only by a scattering of faint stars. The lake below mirrors them in broken ripples.
His breath draws ragged as he stares upward, the sting in his lungs fading into a deeper sting behind his ribs.
He remembers another sky—clearer, fuller—when he'd stood beside Hannah, both of them silent, watching the heavens spill their light. That night felt infinite. Untouchable.
And now, this sky feels smaller. Colder.
Still, he can't look away.
The next morning, Julian steps quietly into the nearly empty hallway, the building still wrapped in dawn's hush. It's early—too early for most—but this is his ritual, a small sanctuary before the day demands its noise.
He pulls a key from his pocket, the metal cold in his fingers, and unlocks the door to his office. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a room chilled by the open window. A thin breath of icy air drifts in, making the papers on his desk flutter like fragile wings.
Julian slips off his muffler, folds it carefully, then settles onto the edge of his desk. The leather creaks beneath him. He powers on his laptop—the screen flickers awake, casting a pale glow across the dark wood.
To his right, the well-worn Bible lies open, its pages edged with soft creases. Julian's fingers trace the lines as he reads slowly, reverently. This early morning scripture is more than habit—it is a steady anchor, a quiet breath before the world stirs.
Minutes pass in the stillness. Then, eyes shifting, he turns back to the laptop, sliding his hand to the mouse. The inbox loads—a parade of emails floods the screen: notes from faculty, event announcements, the usual scattered advertisements.
His finger halts mid-scroll.
The subject line catches his eye:
Julian leans closer, reading the message slowly, deliberately—each word sinking in, stirring thoughts beneath the surface.
We're holding a fashion exhibition for the VIPs of the Harrison Fashion Group at Mellany. As you have been a remarkable figure influencing the fashion industry, we're honored to invite you to our exhibition during the last weekend of January. Please let us know your availability, and we will arrange the schedule for you.
Thank you.
Sincerely, Harrison Fashion Group>
"Right, so they're holding an exhibition… and it's at Mellany…" Julian murmurs, the word hanging on his tongue like something precious.
For some inexplicable reason, his eyes won't leave the name Mellany. The place where he first met Grace—a place etched deep in his memory, wrapped in quiet significance.
"Well…" Julian says softly, "If it's just for the weekend, maybe I can go… a chance to clear my head."
He nods, a flicker of relief in his chest, and scrolls down through the messages. Then his gaze freezes again.
One-on-one request to Professor Lenter
The sender: Grace Silver.
The timestamp: 11:08 pm last night.
Julian's breath catches.
Grace Silver… she requested an appointment with me?
His hand moves almost hesitantly as he clicks open the email.
The message is simple.
This is Grace Silver. I would like to have an appointment with you as I want to come to your office and ask some questions. I can come anytime that works for you, so please let me know.
Thank you, and have a good night.
Best regards, Grace Silver>
Julian reads the email, the quiet words filling the stillness of the room. He clears his throat softly, the sound barely more than a whisper.
"All right," he murmurs into the empty office, the words hanging in the air.
His fingers move deliberately over the keyboard.
Have a good day.>
He reads the reply once more, then slowly clicks 'send.' The subtle click echoes in the silence.
Leaning back, the chair creaks softly as it tilts, giving way under him. He lifts his glasses, pressing his fingers against his eyes to soothe the fatigue pressing behind them.
So Grace Silver is coming… today…
His heart pounds in his chest—steady, insistent—while his mind fights to keep calm, to steady the rush of anticipation.
Julian pushes back from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Startled but fueled by a sudden urgency, his heartbeat drums in his ears. He gathers his laptop and the neatly stacked printouts he prepared for the morning lecture, fingers moving in a swift, almost clumsy rhythm.
He strides toward the door with quick, fleeting steps—then halts mid-motion.
"Right… the coat," he murmurs under his breath.
Turning back, he reaches for the dark wool coat hanging from the rack, the fabric cool beneath his fingertips. He slips it on, the weight settling across his shoulders like an old companion.
The door clicks shut behind him, and he steps into the quiet hallway. Moments later, he's crossing the winter campus. The bare branches sway against a pale sky, and the wind comes in sharp currents, curling around him in playful spirals. It bites at his cheeks, but instead of stinging, the cold feels strangely clean—like a clear breath after a long silence.
Even if she doesn't remember me… The thought flickers warm in his chest. I'm still happy to see her.
Winter's soft sunlight pours gently through the large living room window, casting long, pale beams across the wooden floor. Grace sits at the table, her fingers poised over the laptop keyboard. She opens her email and finds the reply from Julian Lenter waiting. Slowly, she nods to herself.
"All right, so around 4 p.m. then…" she murmurs quietly, voice barely more than a breath.
Rising from the chair, she steps closer to the window. The cityscape stretches out before her—towering buildings dipped in the soft glow of afternoon light, their glass facades shimmering faintly.
Her gaze drifts beyond the skyline, and her thoughts settle on the court case today—her parents' fight to recover what was lost to fraud. A quiet tension tightens in her chest. Closing her eyes for a moment, she offers a prayer for her family's strength and safety.
Though her memories feel clouded and limited to the shadows of her family's troubles, deep within her heart a steady certainty blooms—a whispered assurance that she is being watched over, protected by something unseen but powerful.
The afternoon sun filters through the narrow antique fashion street, painting golden patches on the cracked pavement. Harry's footsteps echo softly as he walks past shuttered storefronts and faded signs, the quiet hum of a neighborhood tucked away from the city's rush.
He stops in front of a modest cotton fabric store, its wooden door slightly worn but inviting. Pushing it open, a soft bell chimes overhead, mingling with the subtle scent of aged linen and cedarwood.
Behind the counter, an old man looks up from a neatly folded piece of fabric. His eyes twinkle with gentle warmth as he pauses his work and slowly approaches Harry.
"Hello, come in," the man says, voice calm and inviting.
Harry returns a soft smile and nods in greeting. "Good afternoon. I've passed by this store many times before. Your fabrics always caught my eye, so I've finally come to see if you have what I'm looking for."
The old man smiles kindly and gestures toward the shelves lining the small shop.
"Take your time—look as much as you want."
Harry runs his fingers lightly over bolts of fabric, admiring the delicate weaves and rich textures. Though the shop is small, it's filled with an array of fabrics—each one carefully crafted, almost whispering stories of hands that wove them.
From his seat at the counter, the old man calls out softly, "What are you needing the fabrics for?"
Harry looks up, eyes meeting the man's.
"I'm trying to make clothes," he says, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.
A chuckle rumbles from the old man.
"Of course, you need fabric for clothes. But what kind of clothes?"
Harry hesitates, then breathes out, "I want to make a brand. Like a clothing line."
The old man's eyes brighten, a spark lighting behind his gentle smile.
"You're trying to make a brand? Like a young entrepreneur?"