The rain had eased by late afternoon, leaving the riverside streets damp and shining under pale light.
Ciel stepped into the tea shop, heart heavy, shoulders tense with days of worry. The quiet bell above the door chimed its soft greeting.
Miss Anya, behind the counter, raised her eyes and offered a knowing, sad smile.
"A letter came for you," she murmured, as if speaking too loudly might break something delicate.
She handed him an envelope: cream paper, edges softened by her careful handling. His name written in Elara's familiar hand, slightly uneven — as if her fingers had trembled.
For a breath, he only stared at it. Afraid to hope. Afraid of what it might say.
Then, with fingers stained from charcoal and time, he opened it.
Ciel,
I don't know if you'll read this before I find the courage to see you. Or if I'll remember why I wrote it.
The words blurred for a moment behind the sting in his eyes.
He blinked hard, forcing himself to keep reading.
Yesterday was Tuesday. I know that in my bones, even if the rest feels hollow. I should have been there. I'm so sorry I wasn't.
He exhaled shakily, the knot in his chest tightening rather than loosening.
The truth is, something is slipping inside me……Even when I forget the shape of your smile… there's still this ache — a place in me that knows something precious is missing.
His breath caught. Outside, rain began again — soft as confession.
Maybe that's love. Maybe it's just memory. Maybe they're the same thing.
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against the letter for a moment. Paper warmed by his breath, dampened by a tear he didn't realize had fallen.
I want to see you. But if my eyes look empty… if my words falter…Please know that somewhere, behind the fog, I am still reaching for you.
Tuesday. Fig tree. Your name: Ciel.
I'm writing these so I won't forget.
Yours — even when I don't remember why
Elara
The tea shop seemed to blur around him: wooden beams, steaming cups, the quiet hum of old rain in the gutters.
Miss Anya pretended to wipe a cup, though her gaze softened with quiet sorrow.
"Will you go to her?" she asked gently.
"Always," he whispered, voice breaking.
Ciel folded the letter carefully, as if it might tear under careless hands.
He pressed it to his chest — right over the spot that ached the most.
She's still trying, he thought. Even if memory fails, her heart is still reaching.
And so he would keep reaching too — with sketches, words, and every beat of a heart that refused to forget.
That night, at home, he added the letter to his sketchbook. Tucked between pages so worn the charcoal almost smudged away.
On the next blank page, he began to draw: Her face, turned slightly away — as if caught mid-forgetting, mid-remembering.
Above it, in careful letters, he wrote:
Tuesday. Fig tree. Her name: Elara.
Because love, he knew now, wasn't just what they remembered —but the vow to keep looking, even through the fog.