Through it all, his deep eyes take in every detail behind the black rims of his glasses, as if memorizing the layers of time stitched into the city's skin.
Soon, the Trinity Hotel comes into view, its familiar façade rising against the night sky. The sight draws him inward, into a memory that still lingers—of the first time he met Grace here in Mellany.
Julian said, "I'll take you to your hotel."
Grace blinked.
"Wait… really? I mean—thank you…"
"Come."
He turned again and began walking fast, not waiting for a reply. Grace scrambled to follow, catching up quickly as they turned down a side street.
Within moments, he came to a stop at the corner—beside a sleek black motorcycle. He swung one leg over and got on, then reached behind him and handed her an extra helmet.
"Wear it."
Grace's eyes grew wider.
Julian's thoughts drift back to the moment as the car slows to a stop in front of the hotel.
"Sir, we're here at the Trinity Hotel," the driver announces.
"Thank you," Julian says, stepping out before the driver can even open the door for him.
The cool night air brushes against his face, carrying the faint hum of the city and distant streetlights.
The driver moves to the trunk and pulls out the suitcase. Julian takes it from him with a steady grip.
"From here, I'll carry it in. Thank you. Have a good night," he says, nodding politely.
"Have a good night, sir," the driver replies, slipping back into the car.
Julian watches the vehicle pull away, tires humming against the pavement, before adjusting the weight of the suitcase and heading toward the hotel entrance. The night seems quieter now, the city lights casting long reflections across the wet sidewalk as he walks.
Julian pushes through the revolving glass doors of the hotel, the warm air of the lobby wrapping around him like velvet. Crystal chandeliers glimmer overhead, scattering light across polished marble floors. The faint scent of lilies lingers in the air as he strides to the reception desk.
With a few quiet words, the check-in is done. A key card slides into his hand, cool and smooth, and he heads toward the elevator.
The doors glide open with a muted chime, and he steps inside. The mirrored walls reflect his tall frame, the dim golden lighting casting sharp lines across his face. As the numbers above the door climb, he remains still, the low hum of the machinery filling the silence.
Ding. Floor 12.
He steps out into a hallway bathed in a hushed amber glow. Thick carpet muffles his footsteps as he passes closed doors, the corridor narrowing toward the far end. Room 1208 waits for him. The key card clicks, the door swings open, and the scene unfolds—
A luxurious suite, artfully designed, its muted tones and soft lighting exuding quiet opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows stand like silent sentinels, framing the night sky beyond. Julian sets his suitcase down with a dull thud, the tension in his shoulders loosening.
He sinks into the sofa, its cushions swallowing him in comfort. Leaning back, he exhales slowly, the city's distant hum muted by the glass.
"So… I'm here. At Mellany," he murmurs.
His eyes drift shut, and the room seems to hold its breath with him.
In another part of the city, Harry sits alone in his design studio, the dim desk lamp spilling a pool of light over scattered fabrics. Rolls of cotton and silk lie open on the table, their textures shifting under his fingertips as he sketches with quiet precision. The faint hum of the heater fills the still air.
He pauses, rubbing his temples, then leans back into the sofa by the wall. The cushions sigh beneath him as he exhales.
If you want to really make a brand, I recommend you go and talk with Julian Lenter.
His father's voice echoes in his mind—clear, steady, almost unreal.
It had been in the living room of his father's house, the afternoon sunlight falling in slow stripes across the floor. Harry had looked at him, startled. He had expected another refusal, another reminder of why starting a new brand was too risky. But instead…
"Julian—he's a brilliant guy in this fashion industry," Harrison had said, leaning forward with an unusual warmth in his eyes. "Though he's retired now, teaching students instead, he can be a good mentor to you."
Harry blinks back to the present, the memory still fresh. He picks up his phone, hesitating for a moment. Then his thumbs move.
He snaps a photo of his latest design sketch—bold lines on crisp paper—and sends it. The screen glows in the dim studio, the sent message hanging between them like a quiet knock on a closed door.
A faint, embarrassed smirk tugs at his lips as he swipes out of the app. But his mind drifts elsewhere—back to what Julian had told him during their last meeting.
Grace is awake…
Harry bites his lower lip, the words pressing against him. He doesn't want to stir old memories for her—not if they could wound her.
What are those memories that Professor Julian is concerned about?
His thoughts tighten into silence. He lets out a slow sigh, pushes the phone aside, and leans back over the fabrics. His pencil moves again, tracing the curves of a new design, the quiet of the room swallowing everything else.
Midnight drapes the room in stillness. Grace lies sprawled on her bed, the dim glow of her iPhone lighting her face. Her thumb scrolls idly through search results of Julian Lenter.
Article after article flickers by, each headline praising his legacy: award-winning collections, visionary brand launches, groundbreaking concepts in the fashion industry. Photographs from runway shows, interviews in glossy magazines, and portraits from charity galas—all painting him as both entrepreneur and artist.
This man's career… it's endless.
Her scrolling slows as she reaches the image section. Rows of photographs load. Then—she pauses. Something tugs at her.
"He doesn't seem to age at all," she murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Like his twenties and thirties… they all look the same."
She keeps scrolling, the thought lingering, until she finally tosses the phone beside her. The screen goes dark. She leans back, eyes tracing the black ceiling above.
"Maybe I'm just digging too deep," she whispers to the quiet. "But really… Why did this man pay for my tuition? Was I really just… randomly chosen from some list?"
The question hangs in the air. A cold winter draft slips through the half-open window, curling along her skin, but she only pulls the blanket higher. She doesn't close the window. Her mind is restless, turning over the unease.
Something about this… just doesn't sit right with me.
Then—another thought sparks. She sits up abruptly, remembering. Tonight, she needs to write her gratitude letter to God.
The memory sharpens—the relief in her parents' voices earlier today, the tears, the release. After years of struggle, of watching her family's savings stolen by a fraud, the court's ruling had finally come down in their favor. Justice, at last, had begun to show itself.
Her pen glides across the page, the ink dark and deliberate.
She pauses for a breath, her hand resting lightly on the paper. The cold wind presses in through the window, stirring a loose strand of hair across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear and keeps writing, the words spilling from a place deeper than thought.
At the same time, Julian runs—long, steady strides cutting through the midnight air. The lake glimmers under the moonlight, the water a sheet of silver rippling with each passing breeze. His breath clouds the cold air, but he keeps moving, feet hitting the path with a rhythm that feels carved into his very being.
The view is achingly familiar. He has run here countless times… over a hundred years ago. The world has changed, the city has shifted, but the curve of the shoreline, the way the moonlight scatters over the water—it's the same.
He runs until a shadowed outline in the distance pulls him from the motion. A sign—dark, unlit. A closed café.
His pace slows. Then stops.
The café.
Memory floods in without mercy.
Daylight, soft and gold, the 1920s alive around him. He sits on the terrace, Hannah across from him. Coffee for him. Royal milk tea and warm bread for her. He can almost hear her quiet laugh, see the way she held her cup with both hands, the way their smiles came hesitant, almost shy.
The vision fades, replaced by the stillness of now—the empty street, the shut doors, the silence. He stands there, bathed in the nostalgia that grips his chest like a slow ache.
He draws a deep breath, the cold searing his lungs.
Grace.
He misses her. Without thinking, he pulls out his phone. His fingers tap her name into the messenger app. Her profile appears—photos scattered through the years. His thumb moves carefully, almost reverently, brushing over each image as though the glass might somehow transmit the warmth of her presence.