Ciel arrived at the café early that day, the hem of his coat still damp from the morning rain. Outside, the sky hung low, heavy with unspoken promises of another storm.
Elara watched from behind the counter as he turned the pages of his sketchbook with quiet hesitation, as if each drawing might bite.
When the afternoon rush faded into the hush of soft jazz and clinking cups, he stood and walked to her corner of the counter. His hands trembled slightly as he laid the sketchbook down, sliding it toward her.
"There's something I've wanted to show you," he murmured, voice low, careful.
She hesitated before opening it. The charcoal smell drifted up — dry and familiar, almost comforting. She turned the first page, then the second, then the third.
Faces stared back at her. Her own face, again and again — but not quite the way she saw herself in mirrors.
Some drawings showed her laughing, hair caught in wind she couldn't remember. Others showed her eyes heavy with sorrow that felt older than this life.In one, faint lines suggested a hospital bed behind her shoulder. In another, a train window reflected her silhouette, blurred by falling rain.
"When did you draw these?" she whispered, afraid of the answer.
"Before we met," he said softly. "Some from years ago, some just weeks before."
She looked up.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because even I didn't believe it," he confessed. "I thought… maybe it was coincidence. Or madness."
Her fingertips brushed over the charcoal lines, smudging them faintly. They felt like echoes of something that should have been forgotten — but wasn't.
"It's not madness," she whispered. "I see them too. Different moments, but always us. Always ending in goodbye."
The words hung heavy in the small space between them.
"So what does it mean?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said, voice trembling. "But it terrifies me."
"Me too," he admitted, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. "But I'd rather be afraid together."
Outside, the rain began again, soft at first, then harder, drumming a steady rhythm on the window panes. Inside, two hearts beat in quiet synchronicity, sketchbook pages open like wounds finally shown.