Aveline's heart thundered in her chest as she stood in the middle of her old apartment, surrounded by relics of a life she no longer lived. It was 2016 again. Before Lucien. Before Clara. Before the clockmaker.
The calendar didn't lie. Neither did the softness of her skin, the absence of the ring she once wore, or the youthful fire in her voice when she whispered aloud, "I'm back. Again."
But why?
She tore through drawers and cupboards, searching for signs, warnings—anything that might explain this forced shift. All she found was a key. Small. Brass. Familiar.
The clockmaker's key.
But there was no message this time. No instructions. No riddles or strangers waiting at the door. Just the silence of time breathing around her, thick with potential.
She thought of Lucien. Of his hands trembling when she told him the truth. Of the haunted look in Jules' eyes. Of Clara's cryptic visions. She thought of how all of it was beginning to bleed together like watercolors in a storm.
But now… she had time. Again.
And this time, she didn't know if she was supposed to stop something—or start it.
Elsewhere in the city, Jules sat across from Clara at a bench in an old church garden. The mark on his chest throbbed beneath his shirt, and though the pain had faded, the clarity it brought had not. Clara stared at him as if trying to decide whether he was a threat or an ally.
"I remember dying," he said. "I think she brought me back."
"She's been doing that," Clara muttered. "Looping. Altering. Rewriting the threads."
He glanced at her. "You know what she is, don't you?"
Clara hesitated. "Not exactly. But I think she was given a choice a long time ago… and she made the wrong one."
Jules looked down at his hands. "And now we're all living inside it."
Lucien had been drinking more than usual. Alone in his apartment, he stared at the painting on his wall—an unfinished canvas Aveline had once touched, back when their love felt unshakable.
His phone buzzed. An unknown number. Just one sentence.
"If you want to remember, come to the rooftop."
He didn't recognize the number, but his feet moved before he could stop them. The rooftop in question belonged to the first building he ever worked in. It was where he'd met Clara once, years ago—only now he remembered nothing about that conversation.
He climbed the stairs, wind loud in his ears.
And she was waiting.
Aveline.
But not the version he knew. Her eyes were younger. Brighter. She wore a dress he hadn't seen in years.
"Lucien?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.
He blinked. "Do I know you?"
Her smile faltered.
In this loop, they hadn't met yet.
Time had rewound before everything.
And now she had to make a choice.
Would she love him again? Would she tell him who she was? Or would she walk away—for his sake?
He stepped forward. "Sorry. You just… looked familiar."
Aveline opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.
Somewhere in the shadows of her mind, Clara's voice echoed:
"What if saving him wasn't your purpose? What if letting go was?"
She swallowed hard.
"Maybe we met in a dream," she said quietly.
Lucien smiled faintly. "Maybe."
As he walked past her, their hands brushed.
And time hiccuped—just once.
A flicker of memory sparked behind Lucien's eyes. A beach. A kiss. A heartbeat stopping.
But then it was gone.
Aveline watched him go, her heart aching.
She wasn't sure anymore whether she had come back to save him…
…or to finally let him go.