The rain had just started when Lucien closed the door behind him. He didn't say goodbye.
Aveline stood motionless in the hallway, her fingers still curled as if they could hold onto his presence. But the silence that followed was heavier than any storm outside. She didn't chase him. This time, she didn't know if she should.
Lucien walked for hours, letting the city swallow him. His thoughts were a storm of echoes—Aveline's confessions, Jules' haunted eyes, Clara's sudden appearance and the strange familiarity in her voice. Each step took him further from the version of himself who once believed in the simplicity of love.
He didn't plan to end up at the old bookstore. It was just there—on the corner, flickering neon sign half-burnt, like memory trying to keep itself alive. Clara was inside, flipping through an atlas of places that didn't exist anymore. Her eyes lifted when he entered, as if she'd been waiting for him all along.
"You look lost," she said gently.
"I think I am."
Clara closed the book. "Want to talk about it?"
They didn't talk right away. They just sat. She handed him tea. He didn't ask how she knew how he liked it. He just drank, grateful for the warmth.
"I remember dying," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Lucien looked at her sharply. "What?"
"In another life. Or maybe it was this one. I don't know anymore."
His grip on the mug tightened.
She looked at him. "And I remember you… but not like this. You were in pain. And she—Aveline—she was already broken."
Lucien set the mug down. "I'm not sure who I am around her anymore. I'm starting to think my memories were chosen for me."
Clara nodded. "You're not crazy. Something's wrong. And she's at the center of it."
Miles away, Aveline stood in front of the mirror again. This time, her reflection didn't mimic her. It moved a second too late. It smiled when she didn't.
"You're running out of time," it whispered.
She turned away, trembling.
That night, Jules couldn't sleep. There was a burning sensation on his chest. He removed his shirt and looked in the mirror. A mark had appeared—crimson, jagged—exactly over his heart. The shape was familiar.
A bullet wound. From a timeline he never lived.
He dropped to the floor, gasping, memory crashing into him like waves. Aveline screaming his name. The way it had ended. The cold.
Tears slipped down his cheeks. "I died for her."
And now he was living in a version where she had erased it.
The next morning, Aveline opened her eyes to soft golden light, birds chirping, the smell of freshly brewed coffee. She sat up—only to realize something was wrong.
The curtains. The wallpaper. The bookshelf.
This was her apartment.
Her old apartment.
And the calendar on the wall read: September 2, 2016.
One year before she ever met Lucien.
Her phone buzzed beside her. An unknown number. Just one message.
"Start again. You're not done yet."
She dropped the phone.
Outside, the world moved on as if nothing had changed.
But Aveline knew better.
Time had shifted again.
And this time, it wasn't her wish that caused it.
Someone else was pulling the strings now.