The café felt different that day. Maybe it was the softer rain, or the way the morning sun had broken briefly through clouds, painting the wooden floors in pale light. Or maybe it was simply that now, the silence between them was no longer empty — it was shared.
Ciel sat by the window, sketchbook open but mostly untouched. Elara brought his chamomile latte, her hands no longer trembling the way they used to.
"Thank you," he said, voice softer than before — as if afraid too loud a word might break the fragile truth between them.
"Ciel," she began, hesitating, "should we… stop meeting like this?"
His brows drew together, surprise flickering into quiet fear.
"Do you want to stop?"
"No," she whispered quickly. "But… if these blackouts keep happening, if the memories keep growing stronger…"
"Then let them," he interrupted gently. "Let them come. I'd rather know and lose you, than stay and never know what we could be."
She looked at him, really looked: the stubborn set of his jaw, the quiet ache in his eyes, the hope balanced carefully over fear.
"So we keep meeting," she whispered.
"Every Tuesday," he said, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.
"Until we can't," she added, voice cracking slightly.
"And even then," he finished, the promise soft as breath, "I'll find you in the next life."
The words settled between them, bittersweet and warm. Outside, the rain eased into a soft mist, turning the street into a pale, dreaming reflection.
Inside, two people sat across from each other — hearts bruised by a thousand goodbyes, but still daring to say yes.