***
In this life, they live together in a small apartment on the fourth floor. The walls are lined with watercolor stains where rain had seeped through, and the curtains by the window are pale blue, fluttering gently in the breeze.
Elara wakes each morning to the smell of paint and the quiet scrape of Ciel's pencil. Sometimes, she pretends to sleep a little longer just to hear it — that soft sound that means he is still here, still drawing, still theirs.
On rainy afternoons, they share tea on the balcony, knees touching under the chipped table. They speak softly, about nothing and everything: the shape of clouds, the next mural he plans, a flower she saw growing through a crack in the pavement.
At night, he sketches her as she reads — saying the way the lamplight touches her hair makes him ache, though he never explains why. She pretends not to see the sadness behind his smile when he draws.
One evening, as the rain drums gently on the roof, Elara leans her head against his shoulder.
"Promise me we'll have more days like this," she whispers.
Ciel's pencil stills.
"I promise," he says, though his voice sounds like goodbye.
In the morning, she wakes alone. The sketchbook on the table shows only unfinished lines: her face, the blue curtains, and an empty space beside her — waiting for someone who will never return.
***