Harry chuckles softly, shaking his hands as if to brush off the grand idea.
"No, it's not that big. It's just… I have this concept for a fashion line I want to create, but I can't quite shape it clearly yet."
The old man laughs, the sound rich and warm. He steps slowly down the narrow aisle between fabric rolls, his fingers grazing the soft textures.
"Well, you remind me of another young man who used to come by here a lot. When I first asked him where he got all these fabrics, he told me he was making a fashion brand."
Harry's curiosity sharpens, his gaze fixing on the old man as anticipation threads through the air. He senses the story will be worth hearing.
Noticing Harry's interest, the old man continues, "That young man—less than a year later, his brand was everywhere. A clothing line made for everyone, with quality that spoke for itself. I was proud that my fabrics helped start his journey."
Harry steps a bit closer, eager.
"May I ask who he was, sir?"
The old man chuckles again, eyes twinkling.
"You'll know him well. Julian Lenter—the founder of numerous lifestyle fashion brands. I hear he's retired now."
A slow smile spreads across Harry's lips, a quiet recognition blooming.
"Right…" he laughs softly, almost a whisper. "So, Professor Lenter started here..."
The old man shrugs lightly, unfazed.
"Well, whether your brand grows big or stays small, you're always welcome here. I hope these fabrics spark something special for you."
He turns and walks back to his table, leaving a gentle generosity in the air.
Harry's eyes gleam as his fingers trail over the vibrant weaves and delicate threads, each bolt whispering possibilities yet to be woven into life.
It's 4 p.m., and Julian steps briskly back into his professor's office. The door clicks softly behind him as he sets down his laptop and the papers he brought from the lecture hall. He slips off his coat and hangs it carefully on the stand by the door.
His eyes wander around the room, settling briefly on the diffuser gently misting fragrant vapor into the air—a familiar, calming scent. Julian drifts slowly through the space, fingers grazing the edge of the intricately crafted desk, as if searching for something to adjust or perfect.
"All right," he whispers to himself, standing still in the quiet room.
His glance flicks down to his Apple Watch. The time reads just a few minutes past 4.
Okay, he thinks, I told her anytime after 4pm work, so she might be a little late.
A sudden knock at the door pulls his attention sharply. He pauses, heart skipping a beat.
Knock again.
A soft, familiar voice follows.
"Excuse me, are you in, Professor Lenter?"
Julian's chest tightens. That gentle voice—Grace's—rings clear and unmistakable.
He moves slowly toward the door, each step measured but steady. He opens it gently, revealing Grace standing there in a sleek black coat. Her hair falls in soft waves, brushing just above her chest, and a shy, warm smile plays on her lips.
Meeting her gaze, Julian's voice lowers even further, quiet and inviting.
"Hi, come in."
He steps aside, opening the door wide, welcoming her into the space.
Grace steps inside, and Julian falls into place quietly behind her, watching as she eases onto the sofa. The soft cushions shift beneath her, the faint rustle of fabric filling the brief silence between them.
Her eyes follow Julian as he moves toward the coffee machine, his steps deliberate but calm.
"Do you want some tea?" Julian asks.
He skips the coffee option, knowing she doesn't drink it.
"No, it's fine," Grace replies softly, but there's a flicker of something in her gaze that lingers on his back.
Julian senses the look, a quiet tension tightening his chest. Despite her refusal, he reaches for the tea leaves, quietly determined to make something warm for her—something to soothe more than just the chill in the air.
Steam curls upward as the tea brews, filling the room with its earthy aroma. Julian turns, facing Grace who sits composed on the sofa, her posture calm but expectant.
"So…" Julian begins, voice catching slightly. He pauses, searching for the right words. "What brought you here?"
Grace meets his eyes, and slowly, a small smile curves her lips.
"Well," she says, the words spilling out with surprising bluntness, "I heard you're my… donor."
Her straightforwardness, so raw and unguarded—as if she's speaking to a stranger—stings Julian in an unexpected way, a quiet ache stirring deep within him.
She doesn't remember me, he reminds himself softly. It's only natural.
"You're welcome," Julian replies simply, the phrase feeling both enough and somehow not enough.
Grace rises from the sofa, her gaze steady as she looks at him.
"And I want to ask one more thing."
At her words, Julian's heart tightens again—an anticipatory flutter—just as the tea machine clicks softly, signaling the brewing's end.
Julian turns back and gently pours the warm milk tea into a simple ceramic cup. The rich, comforting scent of the tea curls softly into the air, mingling with the quiet stillness of the room.
He turns once more, the cup cradled carefully in his hands. Taking a step forward, he offers it to Grace. Their fingers brush for a fleeting moment as the cup passes between them—an electric, delicate contact that makes Julian's pulse quicken, though his face remains calm, unreadable.
Without missing a beat, Julian steps back and moves to his desk, settling into his chair with measured calm. He studies Grace sitting opposite him, her gaze steady and open.
"Okay," he says softly, "so what do you want to ask?"
Grace meets his eyes without hesitation.
"Why did you pay for my tuition?"
The question lands bluntly in the quiet room.
Julian holds her gaze, the weight of her words stirring a storm beneath his composed exterior.
How much can I tell her? How much won't cause her the pain? he wonders silently.
"I pay because it's something I regularly do," Julian replies after a moment, voice steady but gentle. "I review lists of students who had to quit school for financial reasons. This time, I chose to help someone in your faculty—so that's why I chose you."
No, it's not true, Julian tells himself quietly, a silent denial hidden deep inside.
Grace squints slightly, as if trying to make sense of a shadow she can't quite name. A flicker of disappointment brushes across her features—an emotion she can't quite place.
Why did I think there could be more to this than that… she wonders inwardly, voice unheard.
"Then you didn't know me personally?" Grace asks, her tone soft but searching.
Julian meets her gaze, and a heavy silence settles between them like a fragile barrier.
His eyes hold a thousand unspoken thoughts and aching memories, but the words refuse to come.
Yes, I know you.I've known you far too long—since the day we first met and even now.And yet, I feel like I still don't know you at all.How much of your past can I reveal without breaking you?How much do you truly remember from your dreams, and how much should I let you remember?
He swallows hard, the weight of truth lodged deep in his throat.
He fears hurting her by unraveling the past—the death, the loss, the life she once lived in Hannah.
Finally, his voice emerges, low and measured.
"Yes, I personally know you." He pauses, watching her reaction before adding, "You took my course—History of Fashion."
Grace studies Julian in silence. Something in his words fits, yet at the same time, it feels off—like a puzzle with a missing piece.
Why does it feel like he's holding back? she wonders, her gaze flickering over his face, searching for clues in the stillness. Why is everything so unclear?
Before her stands Professor Julian Lenter: his blunt, clear expression framed by black-rimmed glasses, deep eyes shadowed with quiet weight. His broad shoulders fill the high-neck black sweater, and his tall stature seems both grounding and distant—like a man who carries worlds unseen.
Finally, her voice breaks the silence, soft but steady.
"I see," Grace says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "So that's how I know you."
A quiet stillness settles between them, as if the air itself is listening.
Julian's gaze lingers on Grace, his deep eyes shadowed behind the black rims of his glasses. There's something unreadable there—measured, restrained—yet it seems to reach further than his words ever could.
Grace meets his gaze, and a strange sensation stirs within her. It isn't sharp, not even clear—just an elusive weight that presses against her thoughts, a feeling she can't name.
"Well… thanks for the time," she says, rising from her seat, her fingers wrapped around the warm mug. "Where should I put this?"
Julian's lips part, hesitating for a beat.
"Just leave it on the table."
She sets the mug down, the faint clink against the wood sounding louder than it should, and walks toward the door. Julian follows, his steps quiet but steady, until they're standing face to face in the small space before the doorway.