The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world slick with reflections of streetlights and shop signs. Inside the café, the air felt warm and heavy with the scent of coffee and wet pavement.
Elara leaned against the counter, sketchbook open beside her. She drew without thinking: train windows, raindrops on glass, a hand almost brushing hers before the world blurred away.
Ciel sat by the window, watching her more than he watched the rain. After a while, he closed his own sketchbook and stood, walking slowly to the counter.
"Can I tell you something strange?" he asked, voice quiet enough that only she could hear.
"Of course," she whispered, though her heart began to race.
He hesitated, gaze falling to the smudges of charcoal on his fingers.
"Lately… on Tuesdays, I have these dreams. I don't know if they're dreams, really. More like… memories that don't belong to me."
Elara's breath caught.
"What do you see?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Little things," he said. "A train window. An apartment with blue curtains. You… but not you exactly. Sometimes you look older. Sometimes sadder."
He paused, searching her face for something — maybe disbelief, maybe relief.
"Does that sound completely insane?"
She shook her head, her throat too tight for words. Instead, she whispered, barely audible:
"I see them too."
His eyes widened, not in shock, but in a quiet recognition — as if part of him had been waiting for her to say it.
"How long?" he asked gently.
"I don't remember when it started," she said. "But it's always on Tuesdays. Always at the same time."
"3:33 PM?" he asked.
She nodded, and for a moment, the world felt painfully, beautifully fragile — as though it could shatter from the truth they now shared.
"Do you think they're really memories?" he asked.
Elara hesitated.
"Maybe they're lives we've already lived. Or lives we could have lived. I don't know."
"But in every one, it's us," he whispered. "Together."
"And in every one," she whispered back, voice breaking slightly, "we lose each other."
The words hung between them, heavy with sadness and something like hope.
"Maybe this time will be different," he said softly.
"Maybe," she echoed, though part of her heart already feared the price of trying.
Outside, the streetlights flickered to life, painting the wet pavement in soft gold. Inside, two people stood quietly behind a counter, hearts beating a rhythm older than memory, and dared — for just a moment — to believe in this Tuesday.