Julian's lips curve upward, but the expression carries the weight of bitterness. His gaze drifts toward the deepening hues of the evening sky, where the last strokes of sunlight dissolve into indigo.
"But you still like her, right?" Eugene's words cut through the quiet without warning, steady yet probing.
Julian freezes mid-breath, the sky slipping from his eyes as his head lowers. Slowly, deliberately, he turns toward Eugene, studying him from the corner of his vision as though measuring the ground beneath them.
A pause lingers, fragile and unbroken, before he speaks.
"Yes," Julian admits, voice low but unflinching. "I clearly still like her."
Eugene's lips lift into a warm, understanding smile, a quiet acceptance rather than surprise.
"Well," he says, his tone half-playful, half-serious, "I know you've lived this life far longer than me and all that, but we're still friends. And as a friend—" he hesitates, choosing his words carefully "—can I give you some advice?"
Julian answers only with a faint, knowing smirk, the kind that invites but does not promise.
Eugene shifts awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck before pressing on.
"I want you to go over to her."
The night air settles around them, cicadas humming faintly in the background. Julian remains composed, listening without interruption, his silence almost a shield.
Eugene leans forward slightly, as if trying to bridge that silence.
"I'm pretty sure she'll like you back—as always. Because even if she's lost her memories…" His hand rises, tapping over his chest, right above the beat of his heart. "The heart doesn't lie."
Julian's smile softens, warmer this time, as Eugene's words echo within him.
The heart doesn't lie…
He turns the thought over and over, and it sends a quiet heat spreading through his chest.
For so long, he has lived under the weight of one fear—that Grace has forgotten him entirely. That Hannah's memories, their memories, were gone like ashes scattered in the wind. Yet now, from Eugene's simple truth, a new clarity settles inside him.
The heart doesn't lie.
Right… that's why, he realizes. Even when I didn't recognize her as Hannah, even when I thought she was a stranger, my heart still moved toward her. It just knew. My heart responded first, before reason ever caught up.
Eugene leans closer, his tone earnest, his smile carrying the kind of sincerity that can't be faked.
"If you're afraid to stir up her past and risk reopening old wounds, then don't. You don't have to tell her everything. You can start over. Grace may not know about what she shared with you as Hannah—but she still fell in love with you. That hasn't changed. So why not go to her now, and work it out this time?"
Julian's lips lift higher, the corners rising with perfect symmetry, not forced but genuine—an expression warmed by hope.
Eugene watches him, eyes glinting with affection, his smile turning into something like a blessing.
"June, whatever you do, I trust the Lord is always with you. He knows where you should go."
Julian nods, his voice quiet but steady.
"Thanks. You're always a big help, Eugene."
Eugene pats him firmly on the shoulder, a gesture both grounding and encouraging, before heading back toward the diner where the glow of warm light and the silhouette of his waiting wife spill through the windows.
Left alone, Julian lingers in the crisp evening air. He tilts his head back toward the night sky. The moon hangs high, luminous and solemn, casting a silver wash across his face.
A faint, steady smile curves across his lips—gentle, certain, and unshaken.
Grace sinks into the couch, her fingers tapping the keyboard with stubborn persistence. At last, the loading bar flickers across the screen and the cloud system opens.
"Finally," she breathes out, her voice small but triumphant. A laugh escapes her lips, light with relief.
Her drive fills the screen—nearly a decade of her own captured moments. She scrolls, eyes widening at the sheer volume. Videos flood the archive, far outweighing the photos.
"Wow…" she murmurs, lips curving into a smile. Her voice drops to a whisper, as if confessing to herself. "I sure took way more videos than photos. I kind of remember that… It's because I like it when things move."
Her body relaxes, sinking lower until she lies sprawled across the couch, thumb scrolling lazily through the stream of memories.
Then she pauses. Her finger hovers above a thumbnail—a photograph.
A picture of herself.
She taps it open, and the screen fills with the image: she's wearing a black dress, standing inside a grand three-story theater, its chandeliers glinting faintly in the blur.
Her brows knit together.
"Where is this? And why was I wearing this?" The question slips from her lips, hushed, uncertain.
She squints, leaning closer to the screen. Her eyes roam over the details: her own figure framed sharply in the foreground, the black dress flowing elegantly, almost regal. And behind her—blurred, unfocused faces of strangers. Too small, too indistinct to recognize.
"Who… took this photo for me?" she whispers, the thought looping in her mind as she stares.
The silence of the room thickens around her, her own questions circling. She blinks, studying, searching, but no clarity comes.
Then—
A sudden metallic click.
The door lock turns.
The front door swings open.
Grace startles slightly, lowering the laptop a fraction.
"Mom?" she calls out, voice tentative.
Monica steps in, framed by the faint glow of the hallway, carrying the familiar weight of home with her presence.
"Mom, you're here?"
Grace bolts upright from the couch, energy sparking through her as the front door shuts behind her mother. She hurries toward the living room, her face brightening into a wide smile.
"Hi," Monica greets, her own smile warm but touched with fatigue as she slips off her shoes.
Without hesitation, Grace trails after her, following into the master bedroom. Monica begins to unwind her day—shrugging off her coat, hanging it neatly inside the styler.
Grace lingers at her side, phone clutched tightly in her hand.
"Mom," she says, holding the screen up. "Do you know when this photo is from? And where this place is?"
Monica pauses just long enough to glance at the photo. Recognition sparks almost instantly.
"Oh—that's from that party you went to."
Grace blinks, tilting her head.
"A party? I went to a party?"
"Well…" Monica's tone softens as she slips off her earrings, setting them carefully on the dresser. "Maybe not exactly a party. More like a fashion show. I remember you telling me about it." She moves toward the shelf, her hands already busy sorting accessories as if the memory is nothing out of the ordinary.
"A fashion show…" Grace repeats under her breath, the words strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. "That's so different from what I'd usually think of."
The thought pulls at her, nagging in the silence that follows. Her mind circles, grasping for a thread. And then—
Julian Lenter.
The name strikes her like a bell in the distance. She exhales sharply, almost whispering to herself.
He's the professor. The one who teaches fashion design courses.
Her eyes remain fixed on the photo glowing in her hand, but her thoughts have already leapt elsewhere.
The theater, the black dress, the blurred faces and Julian.
A sudden thought stirs in Grace's chest, unshakable, insistent.
Maybe this fashion show… maybe it's connected to him.
Her brows draw together as she thinks and thinks, chasing the fragile thread before it slips away.
Monica glances at her daughter, watching the weight gather in Grace's expression. For a moment, she hesitates. The urge to explain rises, but so does the warning echo of her colleague's words.
"Don't provoke her memories, let them return naturally."
Her lips press together. She lowers her gaze and simply busies herself with unclasping her bracelets, one by one.
"Don't push yourself too hard to remember, honey," Monica says gently. She lifts her eyes again, offering a smile full of reassurance. "You're doing just fine."
Grace exhales, nodding, surrendering the moment.
"Yeah. It'll probably come up later."
But as she turns and walks out of the master bedroom, the unease clings to her.
Why does it feel like Professor Julian Lenter is tied to me in so many ways? The thought gnaws at her, pressing deeper. And yet, by the way he acted, we were nothing more than a professor and a student. Nothing deeper. But…
Her sigh escapes softly into the hallway as she steps into her own room. She closes the door gently behind her and sits on the edge of her bed, the weight of her thoughts pressing down until her head bows.
In the stillness, her lips move in a whisper.
"Please guide me in Your way, Lord. I entrust You with everything."
The quiet prayer lingers in the air like a fragile thread, binding her uncertainty to something higher, something steady.
At that same hour, Julian sits cross-legged on the floor of his small studio apartment. The quiet hum of the city seeps faintly through the window, but inside, the world feels still.