It happened in the space between laughter and breath.
They were seated in their familiar corner: Elara telling a story about her first clumsy attempt at latte art, Ciel half-listening, half-drawing the curve of her smile.
Then — the shift.
The air thickened, sound fell away, and darkness pressed in, sudden and absolute.
She opened her eyes to a sterile brightness. A hospital room. The smell of antiseptic, the hum of distant machines.
Ciel was there — but not the same. His hair was flecked with gray, and fine lines fanned from the corners of his tired eyes. He clutched her hand as if anchoring her to the world.
"You're back," he whispered, voice rough.
"Was I gone?" she asked, disoriented.
"Only minutes," he answered. "But it felt like years."
She blinked — and the world dissolved again.
When she woke, she was back in the café. Ciel knelt beside her, fear raw on his face, his sketchbook fallen to the floor.
"Elara," he whispered, voice breaking. "Can you hear me?"
"I'm here," she managed, throat raw.
She reached for his hand; he took it immediately, warm and shaking.
"How long was I out?"
"Almost ten minutes," he whispered. "I thought I lost you."
"Not yet," she whispered back, though the tremor in her voice betrayed how little comfort she found in the words.
Outside, the rain had stopped — but inside, her pulse still thundered with the memory of white walls and soft goodbyes.