A crisp winter breeze carries the scent of fresh pine through the garden, but the afternoon sunlight warms the scene with a soft golden glow. The air hums with polite conversation, champagne flutes clinking in the hands of men in tailored tuxedos and women in gowns that shimmer like molten silk.
In the center, a sleek runway stretches across the manicured lawn, framed by towering arrangements of white roses and glinting crystal chandeliers hung from temporary arches.
Julian moves through the crowd with a calm, practiced grace, exchanging greetings with familiar faces from the fashion world. Some clasp his hand warmly, others lean in for brief embraces, their words laced with admiration and nostalgia. Eventually, he takes his place in the front row, his gaze sharp and attentive as the show begins.
One by one, models glide down the runway, the fabric catching light with each step. Julian's eyes track every detail—the cut of a hem, the fall of a sleeve, the harmony of color and texture. When the final model disappears backstage, polite applause swells and fades, and the guests drift toward the refreshment tables set at the far end of the garden.
Julian accepts a flute of sparkling, non-alcoholic drink and a small plate of sliced fruit. The conversations around him ebb and flow, but more and more people gravitate toward him, eager to speak to the renowned designer who so rarely appears at such gatherings.
Then a familiar voice calls his name.
"Julian."
He turns. Harrison is striding toward him, grinning broadly, glass in hand.
"It's a beautiful fashion party here," Julian says, his own smile polite but genuine.
Harrison raises his drink in a casual toast. "I didn't expect you to actually say yes to this. You rarely accept our invitations." His eyes gleam with the satisfaction of having scored a small victory.
Julian chuckles under his breath. The real reason he came was because it was being held here, at Mellany—but that stays unspoken.
"Well, Julian…" Harrison begins, hesitating for a moment. "You know my son Harry. He wants to create his own fashion brand. Honestly, I want him to stay, work at my company, get experience, and eventually inherit. But… I can't seem to control him. So I told him to go get advice from you."
Julian's lips curl faintly upward, a quiet, knowing smile.
As Harrison speaks, Julian hides a flicker of amusement. If only he knew… Harry had already sought him out—more than once—and the conversations between them had gone far deeper than Harrison could imagine. But Julian keeps his composure, his expression warm and untroubled.
"I see," he replies softly, his tone carrying an easy gentleness.
Harrison takes a sip of his drink, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.
"I know you're extremely busy with teaching at the school and all that, but please—make time for my son if he comes by for your advice. He thinks of you as some kind of… huge mentor." Harrison chuckles, the sound booming against the quiet grace of the winter afternoon.
Julian lets out a small smile, the kind that lingers in the eyes more than the mouth.
"All right. Of course."
The party flows on around them—laughter drifting from one cluster of guests to another, heels tapping lightly against the marble paths, the faint notes of a string quartet weaving through the chatter. Waiters in white gloves glide between tables, refilling glasses and offering trays of canapés.
The sun begins to lower, casting long shadows across the runway. Conversations shift and swirl, people drifting toward new circles, seeking old friends or potential allies. Julian remains, quietly absorbing the scene, a figure both apart from and within the gathering.
Julian crosses the grand lobby of the hotel, his tuxedo cutting a sharp figure beneath the warm chandelier light. The marble floor echoes softly under his steps as he heads toward the elevator.
A muted chime announces the twelfth floor. The doors glide open, revealing a long, hushed hallway bathed in golden light. He walks its length with unhurried steps, key card in hand.
The lock clicks, and the door swings open. The city of Mellany stretches out before him in the evening glow—an expanse of rooftops and streetlamps, the lake glinting faintly in the distance.
He loosens his tie, tossing it onto the desk, and unbuttons the top of his shirt. For a moment, he simply stands at the wide window, eyes tracing the cityscape below, the glass cool beneath his fingertips.
Within minutes, he has changed into a black sweater, a long black coat, and wide black sweatpants. The formal air of the party melts away. He steps back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.
The streets of Mellany embrace him with a quiet, almost nostalgic stillness. Narrow cobblestone lanes, antique shopfronts, and warm lamplight spilling across weathered stone facades—it feels as though the city has been holding onto the 1920s in secret.
In L. Bingo, where he lives now, the skyline has shifted beyond recognition. But here… here, the spirit of another era lingers. Each step he takes carries him deeper into that memory, until he finds himself standing before a familiar corner.
The café.
Yesterday, he had only stopped outside. Tonight, he goes in. The doorbell chimes softly, and the warmth of roasted coffee beans greets him.
"One coffee, please," he says.
The clerk smiles gently and takes his order. Moments later, Julian carries the cup out to the terrace. The chair creaks faintly as he sits, facing the street. The evening air brushes against his face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain.
From here, he can almost see it—Hannah in her hat and gloves, her hands cupped around a steaming mug of royal milk tea. The awkward smiles, the shared bread, the sunlight pooling over their table.
Julian closes his eyes briefly, letting the memory settle over him like the glow of an old film.
At a small corner table, beneath the flickering light of an old-fashioned lamp, sat Hannah. Her big, round eyes, sparkling with innocence and curiosity, were fixed on him. She lifted a fork to her lips, her muffled smile brightening as she savored the cake.
"You like it?" Julian asked, his arms casually crossed over his chest as he watched her, his voice smooth and calm.
"Yeah, of course." Hannah responded, her mouth full as she took another bite. "This is literally the best cake I know."
Her genuine joy was contagious, and Julian couldn't help but smile. He watched her for a moment, content in her happiness, the corners of his lips turning upward.
"Once I'm done with mission B tomorrow, I'll buy you cakes here again."
But to his surprise, Hannah shook her head, her eyes thoughtful.
"No, it's fine," she said with a soft laugh. "You really don't need to. One time is enough. Next time, I'll buy it on my own."
Julian chuckled, his amusement clear, though there's a hint of fondness in his gaze.
"Sir, here's the milk tea you ordered," the clerk says, voice gentle yet distant.
Julian's gaze, unfocused, sharpens again as the present pulls him back from the echo of memories more than a century old—memories that still brush against him like a ghost's hand.
"Thank you," he replies, offering a faint nod.
The clerk sets the milk tea on the small table, bows politely, and retreats into the warm hum of the café.
Julian's fingers hover over the cup for a moment, his mind elsewhere.
I waited for Hannah to bring me tea that day… and then she was gone—vanished into the shadows of her mission.
The memory tightens in his chest.
He lifts the drink to his lips and takes a slow sip. The sweetness is familiar, yet it does nothing to soften the ache. Setting the cup down with quiet precision, he lets his gaze wander beyond the glass wall to the street outside. People pass by—laughing, talking, living in blissful ignorance.
I know she's there, in L Bingo. I know she hasn't changed—still that same girl. His breath catches. And yet, I stay here. I'm a coward. I can't go to her… not when the past could bleed into the present and tear her apart. Not when the truth of her death could come back to haunt her.
His heart clenches again, sharper this time, as if the beat itself resists the thought. The pain ripples through him—once, twice—until it is all he feels.
Julian exhales slowly, letting the ache spill out in silence.
The next early morning, Julian runs along the quiet curve of Mellany's lake park, breath clouding in the crisp air. The dawn bridge rises ahead—antique, historic, its stone arches glowing faintly under the pale blush of sunrise. His long running pants and fitted jacket move easily with him, his stride steady and unhurried, as if he belongs here, as if he has run this path his entire life.
The lake's surface ripples with the first touch of morning wind. Somewhere behind him, a jogger's footsteps fade, leaving only the rhythm of his own breathing.
Soon after, Julian returns to the hotel. The hiss of the shower fills the bathroom, steam curling against the glass. He dresses with deliberate care: a crisp white shirt, a tailored blazer. The soft mist of perfume lingers in the air as he slips his wallet into his pocket and leaves the room.
A taxi carries him through Mellany's streets, the city slowly stirring awake outside the window. After half an hour, the cab slows before a modest iron gate.
"Sir, is this your destination?" the driver asks.